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THE   GRAVES   AT   KILMORNA 


By   canon   SHEEHAN,   D.D. 


Luke  Delmege:  A  Novel. 

Lisheen:  or  the  Test  of  the  Spirits.    A  Novel. 

Glen  ANA  ar:  A  Novel  of  Irish  Life. 

The   Blindness   of  Dr.   Gray:  A  Novel  of  Irish 
Life. 

The  Graves  at  Kilmorna:  A  Story  of  '67 

Parerga:    a   Com-panion    Volume    to    "  Under    the 
Cedars  and  the  Stars." 

Lost  Angel  of  a  Ruined  Paradise:  A  Drama  of 
Modern  Life. 

The    Intellectuals:     A71   Experiment    in    Irish 
Club-life.  

LONGMANS,   GREEN,   AND  CO. 


THE    GRAVES    AT 
KILMORNA 


A  STORY  OF   '67 


BY 

The  Very  Rev. 
CANON  P.  A.  SHEEHAN,  D.D. 

Author  of 

"  My  New  Curate  ";  "  Luke  Delmege  " 

etc.,  etc. 


New    Imfressiox 


LONGMANS, 

GREEN, 

AND 

CO. 

FOURTH  AVENUE  ^  30TH  STREET  NEW  YORK 

LONDON.  BOMBAY 

,   CALCUTTA  AND   MADRAS 

' 

1918 

Sao 


ra  Barbara.  Cai1f-•'^'^ 


COPYRIGHT,  IQIS,  BY 
LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 


BOOK  I 


THE   GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

BOOK  I 

I 

On  a  certain  summer  evening  in  the  year  1866,  a 
number  of  schoolboys,  of  different  ages,  were  playing 
cricket  along  a  smooth  crease  that  was  worn  out  of 
the  rough  ground  behind  the  market-place  in  a  cer- 
tain Midland  town.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  it 
threw  the  high  walls  of  the  market-place  in  long 
shadows  across  the  ground,  whilst  it  lit  up  the  magnifi- 
cent foliage  of  the  trees  that  filled  and  crowned  the 
glen  beyond  the  river.  In  these  shadows,  a  young 
man  was  walking  up  and  down,  now  reading  closely 
from  a  book  which  he  held  near  to  his  eyes,  now  glan- 
cing away  from  the  book  to  the  boys  at  play,  and  seem- 
ing to  look  at  them  with  eyes  of  pity,  whilst  he  enjoyed 
their  shrill  shouts,  and  all  the  exuberance  and  glory 
of  their  untamed  animal  spirits.  From  the  town 
that  was  hidden  in  a  hollow  beneath  them,  came 
shouts  and  cheers  from  time  to  time,  at  which  the  boys 
paused  from  their  play,  as  if  doubting  whether  they 
were  not  losing  some  fun;  and  then  went  on,  batting 
and  bowling,  as  if  their  games  were  a  more  serious 
attraction. 

Suddenly,  two  or  three  great,  hulking  fellows, 
somewhat  the  worse  for  drink,  came  around  the  corner 
of  the   market-place,    and   lurched  forward  to   where 


4  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

the  boys  were  playing.  One  of  them  shouted:  "Come 
here!"  and  a  young  pale-faced  lad,  the  beads  of  per- 
spiration starting  on  his  forehead  from  the  exercise, 
came  hesitatingly  towards  him.  The  latter  took  out 
a  dirty  piece  of  paper  and  the  stump  of  a  pencil,  and 
said  in  a  hoarse,  menacing  voice: 

"Write  an  ordher!" 

"For  how  much?"  said  the  boy,  putting  the  pencil 
to  his  lips. 

"Twelve  gallons  of  porther!"  said  the  man,  "an' 
you  needn't  put  no  name  to  it!" 

The  boy  wrote  the  order,  and  handed  it  back.  Then 
he  went  forward  to  his  wicket.  The  men  departed. 
The  boys  shouted  with  laughter. 

Then  the  young  man  came  out  of  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  and  approached  the  boys.  There  was  an  instant 
hush.  He  was  young;  but  he  was  the  assistant- 
teacher  in  their  school,  and  he  was  a  grave,  kind  man. 
He  called  the  boys  together. 

"Philip,"  he  said  to  the  young  lad,  who  had  written 
the  order,  "what  are  you  after  doing?" 

The  boy  looked  ashamed  and  troubled,  and  rubbed 
his  moist  hands  along  his  pants. 

"Tim  Doolan  asked  me  to  write  an  order.  Sir," 
he  said,  "and  I  did  it.     We  do  it  every  day." 

"An  order  for  what?"  said  the  teacher,  looking  at 
the  boy  with  calm,  grave  eyes. 

"For  porter,  Sir!     For  twelve  gallons  of  porter." 

"These  men  were  almost  drunk?" 

"They  were.  Sir!" 

"And  altogether  degraded?" 

The  boy  was  silent. 

"Yes!  Altogether  degraded,"  said  the  young  man, 
sternly.     "They   are   hired   to   shout  for  that  place- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  5 

hunter  and  Castle-hack,  who  is  fighting  this  election 
just  to  leap  from  the  backs  of  purchased  slaves  to  the 
Bench;  and  they  are  paid  for  shouting  with  drink. 
Hark!" 

The  sounds  of  hoarse  yells  and  cheers  came  up 
again  from  the  town. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  is?" 

"They're  cheering  for  Serjeant  Holloway,  Sir!" 

"Of  course!  And  Serjeant  Holloway  will  be  prose- 
cuting in  a  few  months,  and  sending  to  the  gallows  or 
penal  servitude  every  brave  young  heart  that  beats 
for  Ireland." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  boys  looked  ashamed. 
The  teacher  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  said: 

"Pull  up  your  stumps  for  the  evening  and  come 
with  me!" 

He  led  them  over  to  the  ditch  that  bounded  the 
glen;  crossed  through  the  stile,  and  sitting  down  on 
the  deep  dry  grass,  he  bade  them  be  seated  around 
him.  Deep  down  in  the  valley,  the  little  stream 
pushed  its  way  with  difficulty  through  the  sedges  and 
rushes  that  choked  it.  Across  the  valley  the  steep 
declivity  was  clothed  with  verdure  to  the  summit. 
A  clump  of  four  enormous  fir  trees  stood  apart,  where 
the  green  field  showed.  To  the  left  the  valley  was 
buried  in  shadow,  the  little  chalet  in  an  orchard  casting 
its  black  reflection  up  against  the  opposite  hill.  The 
teacher  looked  on  at  the  lovely  scene  in  silence  for  a 
while.     The  boys  were  mute. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  view,"  he  said  at  length,  "and 
ours  is  the  most  lovely  country  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
We  ought  to  love  every  blade  of  grass  in  its  fields, 
every   stone  in  its  hollows,   every  leaf  on  its  trees, 


6  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

every  stream  that  runs,  every  hill  that  begets  the 
streams  — " 

He  lowered  his  voice. 

"Every  man  that  has  shed  his  blood  for  Ireland." 

The  boys  looked  up  in  amazement.  They  had  only 
known  this  teacher  as  a  quiet,  plodding,  bookish 
pedant,  who  lived  in  a  garret  on  about  forty  pounds 
a  year, 

"You  heard  me  say  a  few  minutes  ago"  he  went  on, 
that  these  wretched  porter-drinkers  and  shouters 
were  degraded.  They  are!  There  are  always  two 
classes  in  Ireland  —  the  noble  and  the  degraded. 
You  have  seen  the  latter.  Perhaps,  before  we  go 
hence,  I  may  show  you  some  types  of  the  former. 
Meanwhile  listen!" 

He  opened  the  book  which  he  had  been  reading, 
and  read,  or  rather  recited,  a  certain  poem.  The  boys 
hung  on  his  words.     He  closed  the  book. 

"Now,  that's  a  poem;  and  every  poem  is  a  picture. 
Would  you  like  to  see  the  picture?" 

"We  would,"  said  the  boys  eagerly,  expecting  that 
their  teacher  would  pull  a  diorama  from  his  pocket. 

"Now,  look,"  he  said. 

He  pointed  to  the  long  slopes  of  the  valley  at  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  and  said: 

"There  are  the  Dutch  troops  all  along  that  hill 
at  the  other  side.  There  are  their  batteries;  there 
are  the  infantry  camps;  there,  the  cavalry.  There,  in 
the  centre,  just  above  the  quarry,  is  the  tent  of  the 
Dutch  and  English  generals.  The  red  flag  of  England 
is  floating  above  it!  Here,  along  the  plateau,  is  the 
French  army.  It  stretches  along  up  there  beyond 
the  summer-house  and  around  the  Convent  for  over 
a  mile.     Its  heavy  guns  are  masked  here  in  the  market- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  7 

place;  and  just  here  behind  us,  occupying  the  van  and 
the  post  of  danger,  are  the  watch-fires  and  tents  of  the 
Irish  Brigade.  They  have  stolen  away  from  Ireland, 
shipped  as  cargo.  They  have  been  beaten  —  beaten 
before  the  walls  of  Limerick,  beaten  at  the  Boyne, 
beaten  everywhere;  but  —  conquered?  Never!  And 
now  here  they  are  to  break  a  lance  once  more  with 
their  hereditary  foes.  The  watch-fires  are  blazing 
all  around,  and  the  men,  their  arms  piled  near  them, 
are  sleeping  around  the  watch-fires.  But  the  Captains 
are  awake.  They  are  seated,  young  and  old,  around 
the  table  in  the  mess-tent.  The  canvas  is  flapping 
above  their  heads,  and  underneath  it  is  tugging  away 
at  the  pegs.  Their  tunics  are  open.  Their  helmets 
are  hung  around  the  sides  of  the  tent,  their  swords  hang- 
ing beneath  them.  The  President  rises,  and  proposes 
the  first  toast.  He  is  grey  and  grizzled,  but  the  glass  is 
steady  in  his  iron  fingers. 

'"Comrades!  A  health  to  the  monarch  of  France!' 

They  are  in  the  French  camp.  They  have  cast  in  their 
lot  with  France.  France  has  sheltered  them;  and 
therefore, 

'"With  cheers  and  vrith  bumpers  they've  done  as  he  bade, 
For  King  Louis  is  loved  by  the  Irish  Brigade!' 

Now  comes  the  second  toast: 
"'Here's  a  health  to  King  James;   and  they  bent  as  they  quaffed!* 

Mark  that!  No  cheering  now.  For  that  was  Shemus 
the  Coward,  who  fled  from  the  field  of  the  Boyne,  when 
the  Irish  soldiers  shouted:  'Change  Kings,  and  we'll 
fight  you  again.'  But  they  bent  as  they  quaffed. 
There's    the    Irish    always.     Too    loyal!     And    they 


8  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

always  kept  a  soft  corner  in  their  hearts  for  those 
miserable  Stuarts. 
"The  third  toast: 

'"ffere's  to  George  the  Elector!  And  fiercely  they  laughed!' 

Yes!  They  only  hope  that  they  shall  meet  and  cross 
swords    tomorrow    with    the    deadly    enemy    of   their 
country  and  their  Creed. 
"The  fourth  toast: 

* "  Good  luck  to  the  girls,  whom  we  loved  long  ago! 
Where  the  Shannon,  and  Barrow,  and  Blackwater  flow! ' 

"What  are  they  doing  now?  Nothing!  These 
Wild  Geese  have  something  else,  besides  girls,  to  think 
of  tonight!     But  mark  the  fifth  toast: 

"'God  Prosper  Old  Ireland!' 
What   are   they    doing   now?     Ah,    boys,    mark   this! 
See    how    finely    and    dramatically    Davis    draws   the 
picture.     They  set  down  their  glasses  in  silence;   and 
became  as  white  as  a  girl  who  has  seen  a  ghost: 

You'd  think  them  afraid, 
So  pale  grew  the  chiefs  of  the  Irish  Brigade! ' 

Yes!  There's  the  finest  touch  in  all  ballad  literature. 
The  thought  of  the  old  motherland  has  paralysed  them. 
They  remember  all  —  her  mountains,  her  lakes,  her 
valleys,  her  seas!  They  recall  her  long  night  of  suffer- 
ing, redressed  only  by  her  indomitable  Constancy. 
And  they  remember,  how  near  they  were  to  victory. 
Oh!  If  they  only  had  hearkened  to  the  voice  of  their 
Bishop  and  that  Franciscan  friar  who  told  them  to 
hold  out  to  the  last!  But  it  is  of  no  use.  They  were 
misled  and  deceived;  and  their  only  hope  is  now,  to 
fiesh  their  sabres  tomorrow  in  the  breasts  of  the  Dutch- 
men!    Poor  fellows!  poor  fellows! 


A  STORY  OF  '67   '^ '  ANTHON'Y'S  £.9 

SANTA  DAKBAftATcM 
"  *  For  on  far  foreign  fields  from  Dunkirk  to  Belgrade, 
Lie  the  soldiers  and  chiefs  of  the  Irish  Brigade!^ 

No  matter!     It  is  the  field  of  honour  —  but  hark!"  — 

The  sounds  of  shouting  and  yelling  came  up  again 
from  the  town.  Clearly,  some  one  now  was  addressing 
the  mob  that  filled  the  streets  in  the  twilight. 

"Yes!  There  are  the  descendants  of  the  Wild 
Geese,"  said  the  schoolmaster  bitterly.  "There's 
what  we  have  come  to  now!  A  drunken  mob,  shout- 
ing for  their  country's  enemies.     O  my  God!" 

The  man  was  so  much  in  earnest,  that  the  boys  felt 
for  him;  and  in  the  eyes  of  one  or  two,  strange  fires 
began  to  kindle.  The  night  stole  down,  and  the  scent 
of  the  white  clover  and  the  wild  hyacinths  that  filled 
the  lower  meadows  crept  up  on  the  night  air.  Far 
down  along  the  white  road,  little  detachments  of  men, 
two  or  three  in  a  group,  were  filing  along.  Suddenly, 
the  whole  tone  of  the  young  teacher  changed,  as  he 
said: 

"Where  are  these  boys  going,  I  wonder?  For  a 
game  of  bowls,  I  suppose,  or  pitch-and-toss?  " 

The  boys  looked  at  one  another,  and  then  at  the 
teacher.  One  of  them  said  shyly,  and  in  a  rather 
cautious  tone: 

"They're  the  Fenians,  Sir,  going  up  to  drill  in 
Dempsey's  grove!" 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  the  young  master,  unconcernedly. 
"Then  the  soldiers  and  chiefs  of  the  Irish  Brigade 
have  come  to  life  again!  Good-night,  boys,  'tis  getting 
late,  and  you  have  your  lessons  for  tomorrow  to 
learn!" 

They  clambered  over  the  ditch,  and  ran  across  to 
the  market-house  and  down  the  street  to  the  election 
meeting.     Half-way  down    there    was    a    crowd,   and 


10  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

they  were  curious  to  know  what  it  meant.  In  the 
midst  of  a  dozen  men  a  doctor  was  on  his  knees,  and  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  pumping  whiskey  from  the  stomach 
of  a  poor  labourer,  who  seemed  on  the  point  of  death. 
When  the  boys  had  disappeared,  the  teacher  went 
slowly  down  the  declivity,  and  joined  his  comrades  in 
the  grove  beyond  the  river. 


II 


At  the  end  of  that  street,  and  facing  upwards 
towards  it  was  the  principal  hotel  in  the  town.  The 
glimmering  twilight  showed  a  vast  mass  of  people 
wedged  together,  and  listening  to  the  eloquence  of  a 
short,  dapper  little  man,  whose  voice,  now  somewhat 
hoarse  from  exertion,  scarcely  penetrated  to  the  edges 
of  the  crowd.  He  had  dropped  all  his  fine  sentiments 
about  patriotism,  and  the  advancement  of  the  country, 
etc.,  and  was  now  amusing  his  audience  with  local 
allusions,  nicknames,  etc.,  which  evoked  tremendous 
laughter  and  applause.  A  certain  bank  manager, 
who  was  opposed  to  him  in  the  Conservative  interest, 
he  had  dubbed  Modhereen  Ruadh,  referring  to  the 
man's  red  hair.  A  certain  opponent  in  the  crowd  he 
shut  up  by  asking  the  people: 

"  Wouldn't  any  of  ye,  boys,  put  a  sop  in  that  calf's 
mouth?"  which  effectually  stifled  that  opponent.  He 
quoted  from  sundry  ballads,  which  he  had  composed, 
and  which  the  ballad-singers  were  chanting  around 
the  street-corners  everywhere.  Then,  under  a  part- 
ing salvo  of  cheers,  he  bade  them  be  ready  for  the 
morning,  and  come  to  the  aid  of  their  country  by  voting 
for  one  of  its  most  eminent  and  successful  sons. 

When  he  retired,  a  strange  figure  appeared  at 
another  window  of  the  hotel.  He  belonged  to  the 
local  gentry;  but  he  was  a  dummy.  Yet  for  an  hour 
he  kept  the  people  in  a  roar  of  laughter  by  pantomimic 


12  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

gestures  and  contortoins,  which  they  interpreted  as 
clearly  as  if  he  spoke  articulately.  Meanwhile,  a 
band,  consisting  of  flute,  triangle,  concertina,  and 
dulcimer,  was  playing  at  a  furious  rate  on  the  leads 
of  a  neighbouring  shop.  And  then,  when  the  night 
fell,  there  was  a  sudden  hush,  as  the  street  far  down 
near  the  town  clock  was  illuminated  suddenly  by  a 
red  glow,  and  a  hostile  crowd,  with  blazing  torches 
and  tar-barrels,  and  headed  by  a  brass  band,  came 
triumphantly  along.  In  an  instant,  the  crowds  got 
intermingled  in  a  furious  fight.  Shouts  were  raised 
—  party-cries  of  little  meaning.  The  torches  of  the 
hostile  party  were  extinguished,  their  drums  and 
instruments  broken,  their  blazing  tar-barrels  flung  on 
the  ground,  and  the  victors  came  back,  drunk  and 
exulting. 

The  candidate,  Serjeant  Holloway,  had  come  down- 
stairs, and  was  standing,  napkin  in  hand,  on  the  steps 
of  the  hotel.  Some  few  lawyers  and  other  guests  were 
with  him. 

"Any  casualties  on  our  side,  constable?" 

"Not  many,  your  honour.  Some  scalp-wounds, 
merely.  But  I  fear  that  one  poor  fellow  has  had  his 
eye  burned  out  by  a  torch;  and  the  doctor  is  attending 
a  woman  over  at  Callaghan's." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"One  of  the  barrels  fell  near  her,  and  the  paraffin 
set  fire  to  her  clothes.  Her  face  is  badly  burnt,  I 
fear!" 

"Ah,  well,  chances  of  war,  I  suppose.  Here,  give 
the  poor  woman  this  silver  —  for  medical  help  only. 
Remember,  it  is  only  to  secure  proper  assistance  for 
her  wounds." 

He  gave  the  ofl&cer  a  handful  of  silver. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  13 

"I  understand,  yer  honour,"  said  the  oflBcer,  with 
a  grin. 

Some  of  the  crowd  brought  over  a  fool,  a  man  of 
gigantic  stature,  clad  in  long,  cast-off  cloth  habili- 
ments, a  battered  silk  hat  on  his  head,  and  immense, 
but  broken  boots  on  his  feet. 

"Bill  Leham  will  jump  over  a  straw  for  a  sixpence, 
yer  'anner!"  said  one  of  the  crowd. 

"Done!"  said  the  Serjeant  gaily. 

The  straw  was  placed  on  the  flags  where  the  gentle- 
men stood,  and  the  fool  went  up  the  steps.  He  spat 
on  his  hands  several  times,  and  several  times  essayed 
to  jump  the  straw,  but  failed;  spat  on  his  hands  again, 
and  cried  out  in  agony  at  the  thought  of  losing  the 
sixpence: 

"Sand  ^  now!  sand  now!" 

But  it  was  in  vain.  But  he  got  the  sixpence  and 
the  gentlemen  had  their  amusement. 

Another  fool  was  brought  up,  who  offered  to  swallow 
a  live  mouse  for  sixpence.  But  the  gentlemen  declined 
to  witness  that  exhibition.  They  had  dined  too  well; 
and  there  were  some  fragments  remaining. 

During  all  this  time,  a  certain  young  fellow,  who 
seemed  to  be  little  more  than  eighteen  years  of  age,  was 
leaning  up  against  the  shop-door  of  a  baker,  and  at  the 
corner  of  a  lane  that  led  up  from  the  main  street.  Al- 
though young-looking  there  were  curious  lines  —  cres- 
cent shaped  —  around  the  mouth  that  gave  him  a  more 
responsible  appearance.  They  were  lines  that  might 
deepen  into  smiles,  or  smooth  themselves  out  in  fierce 
and  uncontrollable  anger.  His  hands  were  sunk  deep 
in  his  pockets,  and  his  hat  was  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes,  which  gleamed  beneath  it  with  anger  and  con- 

»  Stand. 


14  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

tempt  at  what  they  witnessed.  He  was  chatting  with 
the  proprietor,  a  thin  man,  with  light  sandy  hair,  and 
a  beard,  now  tending  to  greyness,  and  cut  in  the  shape 
of  an  American  goatee.  The  two  men  were  talking 
in  suppressed  tones,  and  the  vast  crowd  never  seemed 
to  notice  them;  but,  when  the  furious  charge  of  the 
opposing  faction  was  made  in  the  street,  a  big  carter 
lurched  up  against  the  young  man,  and  nearly  threw 
him.  But,  by  a  skilful  push  of  his  shoulder,  the 
young  fellow  sent  the  carter  sprawling  on  the  street. 
Yet  it  was  no  assault,  but  merely  a  defensive  act; 
but  the  young  fellow  was  so  savage  he  never  held 
out  a  hand  to  raise  the  man,  and  the  street  was  now 
strewn  with  fallen  heroes  like  him. 

"Begor,  that  was  a  hard  push.  Master  Mylie,"  said 
the  carter  rising.  ''You're  the  only  man  in  the  town 
tonight  that  could  do  that,  and  not  pay  well  for  it." 

"I  did  nothing  to  you,  Jem,"  said  the  young  man 
coolly.  "You  fell  against  me,  and  I  stood  aside. 
That  was  all." 

"Serving  me  right  to  be  here  at  all,"  said  the  labourer, 
brushing  his  coat  and  trousers.  "What  do  the  likes 
of  us  want  here?" 

"What,  indeed,"  said  the  young  man  angrily, 
"except  to  swallow  the  porter  of  that  man,  who  has 
already  sent  our  best  and  bravest  men  into  the  hells 
of  English  prisons?" 

The  man  slunk  away  muttering:  "But,  after  all, 
sure  he's  wan  of  ourselves;  and  he's  good  to  the  poor." 

"There's  the  damnable  expression  that  paralyses 
all  these  fools,"  said  the  young  man  to  his  companion. 
"  Let  a  scoundrel  be  base,  corrupt,  vicious,  a  traitor  or 
a  sneak,  it  is  all  right  with  this  race  of  mendicants,  if 
he's  good  to  the  poor.     The  poor,  the  poor,  the  poor! 


A  STORY  OF  '67  15 

What  an  epitome  of  our  history  is  there,  —  hat  in  hand 
for  ever  before  a  world  that  laughs  at  us,  and  bene- 
factors who  think,  because  they  fling  a  penny  into  our 
caubeens,  they  have  a  right  to  rob  us  of  all  we  possess. 
But,  look  at  this!  That  woman  will  be  burned  to 
death." 

He  ran  over  to  where  a  poor  creature,  half  stupid 
from  drink,  had  fallen  in  the  scuffle.  A  few  torches 
were  extinguished  near  her;  but  a  paraffin  barrel 
had  burst,  and  its  staves,  lined  and  saturated  with 
oil  and  tar,  had  set  fire  to  the  woman's  clothes.  She 
shrieked,  and  then  became  insensible.  The  half- 
drunken  crowd  drew  back  in  fear.  The  police  rushed 
in;  but  before  they  could  reach  her,  the  young  man 
had  flung  his  coat  around  her  blazing  hair  and  gar- 
ments, and  extinguished  the  flames.  But  she  was 
horribly  burnt  about  the  neck  and  face.  He  raised, 
her  up  tenderly,  and,  with  some  help,  got  her  over  to 
the  baker's  shop,  where  she  lay  insensible,  whilst  the 
whole  place  was  filled  with  the  horrible  odour  of  burn- 
ing flesh  and  scorched  clothes,  and  tar  and  paraffin. 

For  several  minutes  she  did  not  recover  conscious- 
ness. Then,  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  up  full 
into  the  face  of  her  preserver.  She  was  a  poor  apple- 
woman,  fond  of  drink,  and  kept  from  the  workhouse 
by  charity. 

"Do  you  know  me,  Bess?"  said  the  young  man 
tenderly. 

"Is  that  you.  Master  Mylie?"  she  said,  in  a  dazed, 
stupid  manner.  "Oh!  Holy  Mother!"  she  continued, 
as  she  became  conscious  of  her  terrible  agony,  "some 
divil  threw  me  under  that  barrel,  and  it  is  burning 
me  like  Hell.  No  matter!  Give  us  another  half -wan; 
and  three  cheers  for  Serjeant  HoUoway!" 


16  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

The  young  man  muttered  a  curse,  then  he  laid  back 
the  head  of  the  injured  woman  gently,  and  went  out, 
and  passed  up  the  lane.  When  he  was  out  of  sight, 
he  leaned  up  against  the  wall  of  the  bakery  and  wept 
and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

Throwing  the  weak  emotion  from  him,  however, 
with  a  strong  effort  of  the  will,  he  recovered  his  com- 
posure rapidly,  and  strode  up  along  the  passage  in  the 
darkness,  until  he  reached  the  wall  that  terminated 
the  lane,  and  guarded  the  deep  quarry  beneath.  Over 
his  head,  the  gable  of  a  huge  grain-store  loomed  black 
against  the  sky.  Lights  gleamed  in  the  back  rooms 
of  neighbouring  streets.  The  sounds  of  tumult  had 
died  away  from  the  thoroughfares.  Night  swallowed 
up  all  hideous  sights  and  sounds  in  its  magnificent 
silences. 

He  sat  on  the  wall  for  the  few  moments'  reflection 
he  permitted  himself,  and  began  to  think. 

"Are  these  people  worth  the  sacrifice  I  and  my  com- 
rades are  making?  Are  they  not  too  degraded,  too 
drink-besodden,  too  bribe-corrupted,  to  regain  the 
instincts  of  freemen?  We  shall  perish,  and  they  will 
laugh  at  our  folly.  We  shall  rot  and  fester,  as  our 
brothers  are  rotting  in  Millbank  and  Dartmoor,  and 
who  will  care?  " 

It  was  true,  absolutely  true.  The  men  who  had  risen 
in  '65,  and  had  been  tried  by  Special  Commission,  and 
been  sentenced  to  twelve  and  fifteen  years'  penal 
servitude,  were  already  forgotten.  That  lawyer  with 
his  glib  tongue  had  driven  them  into  felon  cells.  The 
young  patriot  pictured  their  loneliness,  their  misery, 
their  deprivation  of  freedom,  their  daily  work  as  beasts 
of  burden,  quarrying  stones  in  Portland,  or  dragging 
granite  from  the  quarries  of  Dartmoor.     He  saw  the 


A  STORY  OF  '67  17 

felon's  garb,  with  its  barbed  arrows,  he  realized  the 
taunts  and  jibes,  the  lashes  and  whips  of  English 
gaolers;  and  again  he  asked : 

"Is  the  game  worth  the  cost?  Am  I  justified  in 
drawing  these  poor  lads  into  such  hells  of  human 
misery?  And  all  for  a  drunken  pack  of  mendicants, 
who  would  sell  their  country  for  a  tierce  of  porter?  " 

Reason  concluded  that  it  was  madness,  treason,  in- 
justice, cruelty,  combined. 

But  then,  there  arose  before  the  mind  of  the  boy  all 
that  he  had  ever  read  or  heard  of  the  history  of  his 
country;  and,  as  he  looked  upwards  to  where  the  dark, 
sharp  edge  of  the  quarry  cut  across  the  paler  sky,  he 
thought  he  saw  the  long  procession  of  her  martyrs  and 
confessors,  her  warriors  and  chieftains,  her  priests 
and  nobles,  move  slowly  by;  and,  as  the  words  came 
to  his  lips: 

"I  think  of  all  thy  dark,  long  thrall, 
My  martyrs,  brave  and  true. 
And  dash  apart  the  tears  that  start, 
We  must  not  weep  for  you,  dear  land, 
We  must  not  weep  for  you." 

He  leaped  from  the  wall,  and  clenching  his  bony 
fingers  till  the  nails  cut  the  palms  he  strode  back  and 
downwards  along  the  lane  again. 


Ill 


Half-way  down  the  lane,  there  was  a  deep,  wide 
gate,  now  open.  It  led  into  an  immense  yard,  sur- 
rounded on  every  side  by  huge  stores,  which  had  been 
used  for  corn  and  other  merchandise  in  more  prosper- 
ous times.  Myles  Cogan  entered,  and  turning  to  the 
left,  he  passed  into  the  lower  story  of  one  of  the  build- 
ings. Three  or  four  men  were  playing  cards  around 
a  table,  which  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  tallow  candle 
in  a  tin  sconce.  They  rose  as  Myles  entered,  and  gave 
him  a -military  salute.  He  muttered  "Aughrim"  in 
a  low  tone,  and  at  once  climbed  a  rough  ladder  to  the 
loft  overhead.  The  moment  he  set  foot  on  the  floor 
above,  the  ladder  was  withdrawn  underneath. 

He  was  now  in  an  immense  loft,  absolutely  destitute 
of  furniture  of  every  kind.  A  smell  of  corn  and  hay 
filled  the  air.  Heavy  chains  with  strong  iron  hooks 
hung  from  the  ceiling.  They  were  coated  with  red 
rust.  The  place  was  full  of  men.  It  was  lighted 
with  dim  paraffin  lamps,  suspended  from  these  hooks. 
The  windows  were  carefully  filled  with  corn-bags,  so 
that  not  a  single  pencil  of  light  could  pierce  through. 
The  men  were  variously  employed  —  some  sharpening 
pikes  and  bayonets,  some  studying  military  books, 
one  or  two  were  practising  at  a  target  with  spring 
guns. 

The    moment    Myles    Cogan    appeared,    there   was 


A  STORY  OF  '67  19 

silence.  He  called  them  together  and  drew  a  paper 
from  his  pocket. 

"Section  A,  where?" 

"In  Hazlewood,"  was  the  answer. 

"Under  whom?" 

"Barry!" 

"Section  B?" 

"Over  at  the  Kennels!" 

"Under  whom?" 

"Lysaght!" 

"Section  C?" 

"In  Dempsey's  grove!" 

"Under  whom?" 

"Halpin!" 

He  folded  the  paper,  and  looked  around. 

"There  is  a  consignment  of  goods  from  Cork  by  the 
goods  train  tonight,  reaching  the  station  at  2  a.m. 
What  carrier  is  on?  " 

"Mooney,  Sir.     Jem  Mooney!" 

The  young  man  reflected  deeply  for  a  few  minutes. 
He  then  said: 

"Can  Mooney  be  thoroughly  relied  upon?" 

"He  can,  Sir!"  said  a  middle-aged  man.  "I've 
known  Jem  Mooney  for  years.  He  has  been  always 
with  the  brotherhood." 

"But  he  drinks;  and  we  can  trust  no  man  that 
drinks.  I  saw  him  in  the  street  not  half  an  hour  ago, 
and  he  was  under  the  influence  of  drink.  He  rolled 
up  against  me,  and  I  shouldered  him,  and  he  fell.  I 
don't  think  he  liked  it!" 

There  was  a  few  moments'  silence. 

"Is  the  consignment  a  heavy  one?"  asked  a  young 
man,  with  fierce,  scowling  features. 

"Very!     It  couldn't  be  more  important!" 


20  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Where  is  it  to  go?" 

"Into  the  Protestant  graveyard.  It  is  to  be  buried 
in  one  of  the  old  vaults  in  the  old  church!" 

"Then  I  propose  Crowley  shall  take  it.  This  is 
too  important  a  matter  for  a  man  under  drink!" 

"I  agree  with  you,  Manus,"  said  the  young  Cap- 
tain. "I  want  a  few  volunteers  to  take  the  arms  from 
the  carter,  carry  them  through  the  lower  lane,  and 
deposit  them  in  the  old  Norcott  vault.  It  is  at  the 
east  side  of  the  old  church.  You'll  know  it  easily  by 
the  oval  slab  in  the  walls  above  the  vault.  Let  me 
see!  We  want  four!  You,  Manus,  and  you,  Mike, 
and  Paddy,  and  Murty.     Is  it  all  right?" 

The  men  nodded  assent.  And  then  the  young 
Captain  said  in  a  lower  voice: 

"Comrades,  gather  together  round  about  me  here!" 

The  men,  about  forty  in  number,  crept  close  to- 
gether around  their  young  Captain.  They  were  strong, 
sinewy  fellows,  accustomed  to  bend  their  backs  to  their 
daily  toil,  and  go  through  life  without  pillows  beneath 
their  elbows.  There  were  masons,  carpenters,  brick- 
layers, shoemakers  —  representatives  of  every  kind  of 
trade  amongst  them;  and,  strange  to  say,  many  of 
them,  who  had  been  ploughing  through  life  in  a 
broken-backed,  weary  manner,  were  suddenly  stiffened 
and  strengthened  into  some  kind  of  unnatural  vigour, 
when  they  became  soldiers  of  the  Republic.  And  in 
their  eyes,  gleaming  with  expectancy,  as  they  stood 
there  in  the  dim  light  shed  by  the  smoky  stable-lamp 
above  their  heads,  there  shone  a  steady  light  of  deter- 
mination, as  of  men  who  had  deliberately  staked  all 
on  some  desperate  issue,  and  were  fully  prepared  to 
abide  by  the  result. 

The  young  Captain  was  nearly  a  head  in  height  above 


A  STORY  OF  '67  21 

the  tallest  man  present;  and  to  give  himself  a  greater 
leverage  over  the  meeting,  he  pulled  over  an  old  soap- 
box, and  stood  on  it. 

"Comrades,"  he  said,  in  low  level  tones,  "I  was 
going  to  betray  you  and  our  cause  less  than  half  an 
hour  ago." 

The  men  drew  closer  together,  and  murmured  their 
unbelief. 

"Listen  to  me.  I  don't  mean  that  I  was  going  to 
give  your  names  to  the  Castle,  or  to  call  upon  the 
Solicitor-General  at  the  King's  Arms,  and  arrange  a 
little  bribe  with  him  — " 

"  You  couldn't  do  it,  Master  Mylie,  even  if  you  tried," 
said  a  voice. 

"Well,  we  mustn't  boast,"  said  the  young  Captain 
with  a  shrug.  "But  what  I  mean  is  this.  I  was  down 
there  with  John  Callaghan,  watching  the  proceedings 
this  evening.  I  saw  that  man,  who  sent  Kickham, 
Luby  and  O'Leary  to  gaol  a  few  months  ago.  I  heard 
the  scoundrel  cajoling  and  humbugging  these  wretched 
people;  I  heard  him  talking  about  love  of  country, 
when  I  knew  the  ruffian  cared  nothing  about  his  coun- 
try but  to  sell  it.  I  heard  him  talk  about  commercial 
progress,  when  he  knew  that  every  one  of  our  indus- 
tries were  killed  by  the  government  that  pays  him 
his  handsome  salary,  and  when  he  knew  that  the  only 
progress  he  cared  for,  was  his  own  progress  from  the 
bar  to  the  bench.  I  heard  him  cracking  jokes  about 
decent  old  neighbours  in  this  town.  And  then  I  saw 
him  come  down  with  a  well-filled  stomach  after  dinner 
to  amuse  himself  with  the  antics  of  our  town  fools. 
And  then  —  I  thought  of  Luby,  of  O'Leary,  of  Kick- 
ham,  after  their  dinner  of  skilly  stretched  on  their 
felon-beds  in  Dartmoor  and  Millbank,  in  the  midst 


22  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

of  all  the  criminal  and  social  refuse  of  England;  and  I 
asked  myself,  'Did  these  men  act  wisely  and  well  in 
giving  up  their  homes,  their  wives,  their  little  chil- 
dren, their  human  happiness  for  a  people,  who  had 
already  forgotten  them,  and  were  now  cheering  from 
their  drunken  throats  for  the  man  that  had  sent  the 
bravest  hearts  in  Ireland  into  the  hells  of  English 
prisons?'" 

He  paused,  and  looked  anxiously  into  the  eyes  of 
his  followers.  Sure  enough,  they  were  flaming  with 
indignation;   but  there  was  no  wavering  there. 

"Look  you,  comrades!"  he  continued,  speaking  more 
slowly  and  in  a  lower  tone,  "it  was  not  of  myself  I  was 
thinking.  I  have  neither  chick,  nor  child,  nor  wife, 
nor  even  mother.  I  have  no  ambition  in  life.  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  place-hunter,  nor  a  J. P.  I  have 
never  thought  of  anything  higher  or  greater  than  to 
strike  one  smashing  blow  for  Ireland,  and  then  lie 
down  to  die  on  some  Irish  hillside.  But  I  am  thinking 
of  you;  and  the  question  that  tortured  me  half  an 
hour  ago,  when  I  saw  these  drunken  helots  cheering 
that  salaried  place-hunter  was  this:  am  I  justified 
in  taking  these  men  away  from  their  families,  breaking 
up  their  little  homes,  and  consigning  them  to  a  violent 
death,  or  what  is  worse  than  death,  a  lifelong  imprison- 
ment, merely  to  get  themselves  laughed  at  as  fools 
by  the  very  people  they  strove  to  emancipate?  That's 
the  question  that  tortured  me,  and  shall  I  admit  it, 
drew  tears  from  my  eyes." 

He  paused,  and  Manus,  with  a  deeper  scowl  on  his 
forehead,  said,  with  something  like  a  sneer: 

"And  what  conclusion  did  you  come  to,  Master 
Mylie?" 

"I'll  tell  you.     As  I  was  thinking  of  such  things  — 


A  STORY  OF  '67  23 

of  that  lawyer  with  his  jokes  and  jests,  of  that  awful 
crowd,  of  that  poor  fellow  who  had  his  eye  burned  out 
by  a  torch  and  of  poor  Bessie  Rooney  with  her  neck 
and  face  in  flames,  suddenly  I  saw  a  different  sight. 
All  that  horror  was  rolled  away;  and  I  saw  defiling 
before  my  eyes,  and  down  along  the  ages  every  man 
from  Owen  Roe  and  Red  Alastrum,  who  fought  or 
suffered  for  Ireland.  The  great  procession  passed 
before  me,  and  I  thought  every  man  in  it  looked  at 
me.  I  saw  Aughrim  and  Athlone  and  Limerick;  I 
saw  Emmet  on  the  scaffold,  and  Orr,  and  Fitzgerald; 
I  saw  Sarsfield  on  the  plain  of  Landen  and  Clare  at 
Fontenoy;  I  saw  Dwyer  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Wick- 
low  mountains,  and  Dwyer  on  the  Commeragh  range; 
I  saw  Meagher  leading  up  his  brigade  along  St.  Maryes' 
Heights  and  to  certain  death,  and  I  thought  whilst 
he  was  scaling  those  heights  he  was  dreaming  of  SUe- 
venamon;  and  I  thought  that  what  these  men  had 
done,  it  was  no  dishonour  in  us  to  do;  and  that  where 
these  heroes  had  led,  we  need  never  be  ashamed  to 
follow.     Was  I  right,  or  wrong?" 

"Right,  Captain!  Right,  Master  Mylie!"  was  the 
reply. 

"And  then,"  said  Myles,  lowering  his  voice  and 
speaking  with  emotion,  "I  forgot  those  helots;  and 
remembered  that  it  was  the  motherland  that  called 
us.  And  I  thought  of  that  motherland,  this  Ireland 
of  ours,  with  all  her  magic  beauty,  —  beauty  of  moun- 
tain and  lake,  of  brown  bog,  and  sandy  seashore,  of 
her  seas  and  her  rivers  —  of  all  these  things  that  grow 
into  our  lives  and  become  a  part  of  our  being;  and  then 
I  thought  of  her  long  night  of  sorrow,  of  how  she  has 
been  trampled  and  shamed  and  degraded,  and  then 
held  up  by  her  iron  masters  as  an  object  of  derision  to 


24  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

the  world,  —  her  masters  who  laughed  at  the  hunger 
and  ignorance  they  caused;  her  masters,  who  held 
up  her  rags  and  fluttered  them  in  the  face  of  the  na- 
tions, who  never  knew,  or  cared  that  it  was  these  very 
masters  who  cut  every  weal  into  her  body,  and  took 
the  bread  from  her  mouth,  and  snipped  her  garments 
into  fragments,  until  I  grew  mad  with  the  thought, 
that  perhaps  the  one  chance  of  my  life  would  escape 
me  —  to  wreak  vengeance  on  her  foes,  or  save  that 
motherland  from  further  humiliation, 

"And  then,"  said  the  young  captain,  "I  flung  every 
selflsh  thought  to  the  winds;  and  I  dug  the  nails  into 
the  flesh  of  my  palms,  and  I  swore  that,  whoever  else 
shall  turn  back  from  our  sacred  enterprise,  it  shall 
not  be  your  Captain." 

"No,  nor  your  soldiers,"  said  a  big  mason,  lifting 
his  head.  "But,  Master  Mylie,  that's  all  settled  long 
and  merry  ago.  What  we  want  to  know  now  is,  when 
the  dance  is  going  to  begin!  Begor,  we're  getting  the 
coaldd  gribtin  ^  in  our  legs." 

"Thrue  for  you,  Dan,"  said  another.  "You  see, 
Captain,  we're  Irish;  and  it  isn't  the  fighting  we 
mind,  but  the  waiting  for  the  fighting.  'Tis  enough 
to  knock  all  the  nerve  out  of  us  to  keep  us  in  the 
ditches  waiting  for  the  first  shot." 

"You  won't  have  long  to  wait,"  said  the  young 
Captain.  "Before  '67  dawns  upon  us,  we'll  have 
measured  ourselves  with  the  enemy.  But,  this  time 
there  must  be  no  failure.  We've  failed  too  often 
already;  and  this  time  there  must  be  no  mistake.  So 
the  C.  O.  writes  to  me.     Arms  are  coming  in  with  every 

'  Pronounced  "Cullagrufeen,"  vulgarly,  "pins  and  needles," 
literally,  "sleep  in  the  blood." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  25 

tide  into  the  country;   and  the  men  who  are  to  lead  us 
are  slipping  in  with  them. 

The  French  are  on  the  say, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht.' 

Thiggin  thu?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!"  they  shouted.     "But  oh!  for  the 
first  bonfire  on  Slieve  Ruadh!" 


IV 


Myles  Cogan's  father  was  a  prosperous  merchant 
in  the  town  —  so  prosperous  that  he  was  able  to  hold 
also  a  mill,  a  small  farm,  and  a  pretty  villa  in  the 
country.  Here  he  lived  with  his  son,  and  his  only 
daughter,  Agnes,  still  a  convent-pupil,  but  just  pass- 
ing into  womanhood.  And  she  was  tall,  and  preco- 
cious beyond  her  years;  and  she  had  one  idol,  her 
brother,  Myles.  The  delight  of  her  life  was  to  make 
everything  smooth  for  him;  and  just  at  this  time, 
her  voluntary  services  were  much  in  requisition, 
because  there  was  a  growing  breach  between  old  Dan 
Cogan  and  his  son.  Strange,  weird  rumours  about 
his  boy  were  filtering  in  from  the  town.  They  seemed 
too  absurd  for  belief;  but  they  were  making  an  impres- 
sion on  the  old  man. 

The  morning  of  the  election,  after  breakfast,  he  was 
carefully  reading  the  speech  of  the  Solicitor-General  of 
the  night  before,  when  Myles,  in  his  everyday  garb, 
came  in,  and  sat  down.  After  a  few  angry  glances  at 
the  boy,  his  father  said  in  a  studiously  composed 
manner: 

"I  don't  see  your  name  at  the  committee-meeting 
last  night?" 

"Committee-meeting?"  said  Myles.  ",Who8e  com- 
mittee-meeting, Sir?" 

"The  Solicitor-General's,  of  course.  There  is  no 
other." 


A  STORY  OF   'G7  27 

"And  why  do  they  want  on  a  committee  a  boy  like 
me?"  said  Myles,  with  much  humility. 

"You're  of  age,"  said  his  father.  "You're  no 
longer  a  boy;  and  I  want  you  to  take  your  rightful 
place  in  the  town  and  before  the  country." 

"And  what  is  that,  Sir?"  said  Myles,  meekly. 

"What  is  that?  You're  trifling  with  me,  Sir!"  said 
his  father  sternly. 

"I  assure  you.  Sir,"  said  Myles,  "that  I  am  puzzled 
to  know  what  you  mean.  You  are  the  head  and 
representative  of  our  family;  and  it  is  to  you,  and  not 
to  me  that  people  look.  You  know  there  is  an  ancient 
prejudice  against  callow  youth  like  myself,  and  the 
electors  would  not  care  to  see  themselves  represented 
before  these  strangers  by  a  boy,  like  me." 

His  father  looked  at  him  keenly,  as  if  he  would  like 
to  discern  the  meaning  behind  these  words;  but  the 
face  of  the  young  man  was  unmoved. 

"You're  young,"  said  the  father,  in  a  mollified 
manner,  "and  'tis  all  the  better.  But  do  you  know, 
Myles,  what  occurred  to  me  last  night?  " 

Myles  was  silent. 

"As  I  sat  in  that  committee-room,  and  looked  around 
at  all  these  distinguished  men,  and  particularly  at 
the  most  distinguished  of  them,  I  mean,  our  candi- 
date, I  thought  to  myself,  —  well,  now,  all  these  gentle- 
men are  sons  of  shopkeepers,  like  myself.  I  knew 
Serjeant  Holloway's  father  well.  He  kept  a  small 
leather  shop  just  there  within  a  stone's  throw  of  where 
his  illustrious  son  was  speaking  last  night.  He  went 
to  College;   became  a  Counsellor;   and  now  —  " 

He  stopped;   and  Myles  said: 

"He  will  be  elected  to  the  English  House  of  Com- 
mons today!" 


28  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Not  a  doubt  about  it.  He  commands  two  hundred 
votes  in  this  constituency.  He  becomes  member 
of  Parliament  for  his  native  town,  then  Attorney- 
General,  then  Judge,  then  Lord  Chancellor;  what  a 
career  of  honour  and  usefulness!  And  I  said,  why 
shouldn't  Myles  Cogan  follow  in  his  footsteps?  You 
have  ability,  talent,  I  have  money  to  push  you  on. 
What  is  to  stop  you?  " 

Myles  was  silent  for  a  moment;  and  his  father  went 
on: 

"Yes,  I  said  in  my  own  mind,  why  shouldn't  my  son 
push  himself  forward  in  life  as  well  as  Serjeant  Hollo- 
way?  'Tis  a  lawful  ambition;  and  I  think,  nay, 
I'm  sure  I  have  secured  influence  enough  already  to 
push  you  on  at  the  Bar!" 

"'Tis  only  one  barrister  out  of  four  hundred  that 
succeeds,"  said  Myles  temporising.  "It  is  not  pleas- 
ant, I  believe,  to  have  to  wander  around  the  Four 
Courts  for  years,  a  briefless  barrister;  and  to  have  to 
bribe,  or  court  the  favour,  of  every  country  attorney  in 
the  Circuit." 

"Don't  fear  that,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  com- 
ing over  and  placing  his  hand  on  the  broad  shoulders 
of  his  son.  "I've  settled  all  that.  A  certain  person  — 
we  name  no  names  —  came  over  to  me  last  night  after 
dinner,  and  he  said:  '  Dan  Cogan,'  said  he,  *  you're  the 
oldest  and  staunchest  friend  I  have  here.  My  father 
and  yours  went  to  school  together  down  at  the  Long 
Room,  and  many  a  time  I  heard  my  father  speak  of 
honest  Tom  Cogan.  Well,  we  move  in  different  spheres 
of  life,'  says  he,  'but  I  know  a  man  when  I  meet  him; 
and  that's  the  reason,  Dan,'  says  he,  *  why  I  insisted  that 
you  should  be  my  proposer,  and  no  other.  And  now, 
I'll  say  no  more,'  says  he.     *  A  nod  is  as  good  as  a  wink 


A  STORY  OF  '67  29 

to  a  blind  horse.'  That's  the  pleasant  way  these 
gentlemen  have  of  talking.  '  Thiggin  —  thu?'  says  he. 
'  Thiggin  go  mach!'  says  I.  And  now,  all  you  have  to 
do  is  to  run  up  to  Dublin.  Money  is  no  object  with 
me.  Spend  as  much  as  you  like.  Young  men  must 
sow  their  wild  oats.  We  can't  put  old  heads  upon 
young  shoulders.  But  when  I  see  Q.C.  to  your  name, 
I'll  forgive  you  everything." 

He  gave  his  son  a  smart,  confidential  slap  on  the 
shoulders;  and  just  then,  Agnes  put  in  her  pretty  little 
head,  and  said: 

"Pap,  there's  a  messenger  from  the  Court-house. 
You're  wanted  up  immediately!" 

He  gave  a  wink  at  Myles,  a  wink  of  much,  though 
not  mutual  confidence,  and  strode  pompously  away. 

Agnes  came  in;  and  her  big  brother  took  her  up  in 
his  arms,  and  kissed  her,  saying: 

"You  little  guardian  angel,  you  just  came  in  the 
nick  of  time.  Do  you  know  what  father  wants  me  to 
be?" 

"No!"  she  said,  with  eyes  wide  open  with 
curiosity. 

"A  d — d  lawyer  and  Castle  hack,  like  this  Hollo- 
way!" 

"Myles!"  said  the  girl  solemnly.  "I'd  rather  see 
you  stretched  beside  our  dead  mother!" 

"And  there  spoke  my  poor  mother,"  he  said,  kiss- 
ing his  sister  again.  "But  you  see,  father's  head  is 
turned  by  this  fellow's  compliments.  Good  heavens! 
Myles  Cogan  —  a  lawyer  and  a  Q.C.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  somersault  before!" 

"That's  all  right,  Mylie,"  said  his  sister,  coming 
down  to  dull,  prose  fact.  "But  the  question  is  now, 
how  are  you  to  get  out  of  it?  " 


30  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"You'll  do  that  much  for  me,"  he  said  confidently. 
"Man's  wisdom  is  no  match  for  woman's  wit." 

"Thanks  awfully!  as  our  genteel  folks  say,"  said 
Agnes,  "  and  I  undertake  the  commission.  But  I 
want  to  have  two  or  three  little  facts  cleared  up  first." 

"All  right!"  said  he  gaily,  "go  ahead!" 

He  sank  into  an  armchair;  and  his  sister  sat  upon 
the  arm  of  it,  and  began  to  play  with  her  brother's 
hair. 

"First,  I  want  to  know,"  she  said,  "when  is  the 
pantomime  to  be?" 

"Pantomime?     What  pantomime?"  he  cried. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  sarcastically. 
"But  when  I  find  a  young  gentleman  hiding  away  a 
green  coat,  slashed  with  gold,  and  gold  epaulettes,  I 
conclude  that  we  are  going  to  have  some  private 
theatricals." 

He  had  started  violently  at  the  words,  but  his 
sister's  remarks  gave  him  the  clue. 

"Oh,  'William  Tell!'"  he  said,  "I  suppose  we  can't 
put  it  on  the  stage  before  Christmas!" 

"Certainly  not.  And  you  are  William  Tell.  You'll 
want  a  good  deal  of  practice  with  the  bow  and  arrow, 
before  you  can  hit  that  apple,  I  think!" 

"Oh!  we  won't  mind  that!"  said  Myles  uneasily. 
"Bows  and  arrows  are  out  of  date  now!" 

"Yes!  A  couple  of  six-chambered  revolvers,  silver- 
chased,  would  be  more  up-to-date,  wouldn't  they?" 

He  arose  suddenly,  and  would  have  broken  out  into 
an  angry  remonstrance,  but  Agnes  had  bent  down  her 
face  close  to  his,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  swim- 
ming with  tears  as  she  said: 

"Oh,  Mylie,  Mylie,  what  is  it  all?  What  is  it  all? 
Poor  father   will   turn  against  you;    and   everybody 


A  STORY  OF  '67  31 

will  turn  against  you;  and  you'll  go  out  and  be  shot, 
or  arrested,  and  then  —  then,  O  my  God,  what  shall 
I  do?" 

The  young  man  was  staggered  by  this  appeal  — 
much  more  moved  than  he  would  have  been  by  his 
father's  passionate  anger;  but,  he  decided,  in  a  mo- 
ment, that  his  only  chance  was  to  pass  it  off  lightly. 

"And  so  that's  how  pantomimes  end,"  he  said. 
"How  little  girls'  fancies  run  away  with  them.  War, 
and  bloodshed,  and  gaols  and  scaffolds!  Would  it 
not  be  well,  Agnes,  to  wait  a  little,  and  not  be  inflam- 
ing those  pretty  blue  eyes  for  nothing?  When  I  am 
hanged,  I'll  let  you  cry  your  fill,  but  not  now,  Aggie, 
not  now!" 

"It  won't  do,  Mylie,  it  won't  do,"  said  the  girl  sob- 
bing, "there's  something  awful  going  to  happen,  I 
know  it!  I  know  it!  And  'twill  happen  to  you; 
and  what  shall  I  do?  what  shall  1  do?  " 

"There  now!  there  now!"  said  her  brother  sooth- 
ingly, drawing  her  head  close  to  his  own,  "nothing 
will  happen,  dear,  but  what  is  best  for  Ireland,  and 
us  all.  However,"  he  said  gaily,  "if  you  like,  I'll 
follow  father's  advice,  become  a  lawyer,  get  on  the 
bench,  and  hang  every  poor  chap  that  has  a  genuine 
love  for  Ireland  — " 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  mouth. 

"No!  no!  no!"  she  said,  "but  is  there  no  other 
way?  Can't  you  escape  some  way?  You  know 
Father  James  was  here  with  Pap  a  long  time  last 
night;  and  they  were  talking  together,  and  they  were 
very  solemn;  and  whenever  I  went  into  the  room, 
they  began  to  talk  about  the  election  and  the  weather. 
But  I  heard  Father  James  say  once,  as  I  drew  open 
the  door :   '  Every  name  is  up  at  the  Castle ! '  and  when 


32  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

he  was  going  away  at  eleven  o'clock,  he  said,  on  the 
stairs:  'Don't  force  him!  Don't  oppose  him!  but 
try  and  bend  his  thoughts  in  another  direction?'" 

"I  see!  That's  the  secret  of  my  promotion  to  silk  at 
the  bar.  Heigho!  How  these  good  people  do  settle 
the  affairs  of  us  youngsters,  to  be  sure!  But,  'every 
name  is  up  at  the  Castle.'  Did  he  give  any  authority; 
for  that's  generally  guesswork,  you  know?  The 
priests  want  to  frighten  away  all  the  young  men  from 
allegiance  to  their  Country." 

"He  said  no  more!"  said  Agnes  dubiously.  "But, 
Mylie,  it's  all  very  well  about  love  of  country,  and 
patriotism,  but  what  about  our  holy  faith?  Can  we 
turn  our  backs  on  that?" 

"I'm  not  a  bad  Catholic!"  he  said,  and  for  the 
first  time  he  appeared  offended  with  his  little  sister; 
"I  have  never  been  absent  from  Mass;  I  have  never 
touched  meat  on  a  Friday,  or  a  Fast-day;  I  say  my 
prayers  every  night  and  morning!     What  more?" 

"Mother  would  say:  Mylie,  what  about  Confession? 
What  about  Holy  Communion?  You,  who  were  never 
absent  a  month  from  Confession  — " 

"Aggie,  don't!  For  God's  sake,  leave  me  alone 
now.  Little  girls  don't  understand  these  things. 
These  things  are  for  men!  Run  awaj',  and  get  the 
Union  Jack  to  hang  out  this  afternoon,  when  our  new 
member  will  be  chaired;  and  be  sure  to  have  your 
nicest  little  lace  handkerchief  to  flutter  over  the 
mimber's  head.  I  suppose  poor  old  Pap  will  be  with 
the  scoundrel;   and  he'll  expect  to  see  you." 

"Yes!"  said  Agnes  tauntingly,  "and,  of  course, 
you'll  be  there?  " 

"I  guess  not!"  he  said  jauntily,  "or  I  might  be 
tempted  to  put  a  bullet  through  the  fellow;  I  am  quite 


A  STORY  OF  '67  33 

sure,  if  poor  Kickham  came  into  my  mind  at  the 
time,  I'd  do  something  that  would  be  unpleasant!" 

"So  you  won't  come?" 

"No!     Not  even  for  you,  Aggie!" 

"But  if  I  bring  Mary?" 

"What  Mary?" 

"There's  only  one  Mary  in  the  world  just  now!" 

"Oh!"  he  said.  She  ran  away  laughing,  although 
her  heart  was  heavy  enough.  And  he  leaned  his 
head  back  against  the  chair;  and  thought  a  good  deal. 
Did  he  waver? 

Not  for  an  instant!  But  that  allusion  to  the  Sacra- 
ments, and  the  ban  of  the  Church  rankled  in  his  mind. 
He  would  gladly  give  his  life  for  Ireland;  but  to  die 
unshriven  and  unanointed  was  a  thought  he  could  not 
bear.  Would  it  not  mean  separation  for  ever  from  that 
mother  he  adored?     The  thought  was  maddening. 


In  the  graveyard  behind  the  Catholic  Church  that 
same  evening  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock,  Myles 
Cogan  sat  upon  his  mother's  grave.  The  setting  sun 
sent  its  level  beams  in  between  the  lattice  work  of  the 
giant  beeches  that  lined  the  western  wall,  and  threw 
its  dappled  shadows  on  the  wall  at  the  other  side. 
A  strong  odour  of  hemlock  filled  the  air,  for  the  grave- 
yard was  literally  white  with  the  blossoms  of  the  weed 
that  grew  four  or  five  feet  high  in  the  rank  soil.  The 
black  wooden  belfry  with  its  curious  triangular  top 
showed  dark  against  the  green  and  gold  of  the  meadow 
beyond;  the  windows  of  the  galleries  in  the  old  Church 
looked  down  upon  the  places  of  the  dead. 

Myles  was  buried  in  deep  thought,  as  he  sat  there 
above  the  ashes  of  his  beloved  mother.  She  had  died 
whilst  he  was  yet  a  boy;  but  her  love,  discriminate 
and  wise;  her  deep,  heartfelt,  trustful  religion,  and 
her  intense  devotion  to  her  country  had  made  a  lasting 
impression  on  the  boy,  —  an  impression  that  never 
entirely  faded.  He  sought  the  lonely  place  to  be  out 
of  the  way  of  the  crowds  that  filled  the  streets;  and 
to  avoid  witnessing  what  he  considered  a  nation's 
humiliation.  His  own  work  was  to  come  after  —  the 
work  of  pulling  down  and  destroying  for  ever  the 
fabric  of  that  hated  government,  of  which  this  man 
was  a  servile  tool.  He  had  a  certain  amount  of  con- 
tempt for  the  man  himself  as  a  -parvenu  and  an  upstart, 


A  STORY  OF  '67  35 

who  had  forced  himself  into  the  front  ranks  of  his 
profession;  but  he  hated  him  because  he  thought  he 
was  making  the  people  more  servile  than  ever;  and 
his  hate  rose  into  wrath,  when  he  thought  of  this  glib 
lawyer  surrounded  by  a  degraded  people,  and  receiving 
their  adulations,  whilst  Charles  Kickham,  the  gentle 
poet,  the  accomplished  scholar,  the  faithful  and  loving 
delineator  of  his  country,  was  rotting  out  his  life, 
deaf  and  blind,  amongst  the  scum  of  the  English 
population.  This  moment,  he  thought,  Kickham  is 
lying  awake  in  his  cell  at  Millbank,  having  been  in 
bed  since  five  o'clock  this  lovely  summer  evening 
according  to  one  of  the  most  hateful  prison  rules. 
What  is  he  thinking  of?  Of  the  sun  setting  on  Slieve- 
namon,  of  the  golden  gorse  climbing  up  the  hills,  and 
filling  the  valleys  of  Tipperary;  of  the  wild  flowers 
in  the  deep  meadows  along  the  banks  of  the  stately 
Suir,  of  the  peasants  resting  after  their  daily  toil; 
of  the  blue  smoke  curling  up  from  the  thatched  cot- 
tages, of  the  boys  and  girls  at  the  evening  dance  in 
the  village;  of  the  Sainted  Irish  dead  sleeping  beneath 
the  hawthorn  and  ivy  in  many  a  ruined  Abbey.  And 
hark!  here  is  the  muffled  tread  of  the  English  warder, 
who  pulls  back  every  quarter  hour  the  iron  slip  outside 
his  cell,  and  peers  through  to  see  that  his  Irish  felon 
is  safe.     And  hark! 

Over  and  through  the  trees,  and  borne  on  the  soft 
evening  breezes,  come  the  tumult  and  noise,  the  frantic 
cheering  and  yelling  of  the  streets.  He  knew  what  it 
meant.  They  are  chairing  the  member.  They  have 
unyoked  the  horses  from  the  waggonnette,  and  are 
pulling  the  carriage,  willing  and  craven  hirelings, 
along  the  thoroughfares.  Bands  are  playing  dis- 
cordantly in  front;  the  masses  of  the  people  are  rolling 


36  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

wildly  around;  the  windows  are  filled  with  girls  and 
women,  who  wave  their  handkerchiefs  and  waft  their 
smiles  towards  the  bland  and  triumphant  lawyer. 
The  chief  men  of  the  town  stand  on  the  waggonnette 
beside  the  member.  They  are  his  Committee,  who 
have  worked,  night  and  day,  for  his  return.  Chief 
amongst  them,  and  conspicuous  by  his  white  shirt  front 
and  his  well-cut  cloth  coat,  is  Dan  Cogan,  who  knows 
that  he  has  already  the  magic  letters  J. P.  attached  to 
his  name.  As  they  approach  a  certain  corner  house, 
the  proprietor,  a  grocer,  surrounded  by  his  interesting 
family,  opens  his  window,  and  gently,  ever  so  gently, 
lets  down  a  glass  of  wine  at  the  end  of  a  fishing-rod. 
The  member  accepts  it,  and  the  vast  crowd  cheer 
madly.  The  member  replaces  the  empty  glass,  and 
smiles,  oh!  such  a  killing  smile,  at  the  grocer's  wife 
and  daughters.  The  crowd  grow  mad  with  enthu- 
siasm. Dan  Cogan  is  savage  with  envy  and  regret  that 
he  never  thought  of  such  a  compliment.  What  a 
pretty  picture  Agnes  Cogan  would  be  under  similar 
circumstances!  The  procession  rounds  another  cor- 
ner. A  bonfire  is  blazing.  The  procession  pauses; 
and  a  hideous  effigy  of  the  defeated  candidate,  satu- 
rated with  petroleum,  is  flung  into  the  flames.  There 
is  riotous  laughter  and  applause.  Slowly,  the  proces- 
sion passes  up  the  main  street.  Everywhere,  open 
windows,  fair  ladies,  sweet,  young  children,  everywhere 
smiles  and  cheers  and  adulations;    but  lo! 

In  the  midst  of  red  flags  and  Union  Jacks,  an  ominous 
sign  appears.  From  the  top  windows  of  a  large  house, 
shuttered  and  with  drawn  blinds  from  base  to  attic, 
droops  an  enormous  black  flag.  The  breeze  is  too  weak 
to  lift  it;  and  there  it  hangs,  a  dead  and  lifeless  sign, 
emphasized    by   a   white   skull    and   crossbones,    that 


A  STORY  OF  '67  37 

add  to  its  ghastly  significance.  The  cheering  suddenly 
ceases,  and  there  are  angry  growls.  The  member 
looks  upward,  points  to  the  ghastly  symbol,  and 
smiles.  But  there  is  one  man,  on  whom  the  outrage 
falls  with  as  much  terror  as  if  the  whole  front  of  the 
house  was  about  to  bend  forward  and  annihilate  them; 
for  beneath,  above  the  shop-door,  appears  in  gold 
letters,  beneath  glass  shades,  the  name,  D.  Cogan. 


VI 


When  the  noise  from  the  streets  had  ceased,  and 
Myles  Cogan  could  fairly  conclude  that  the  mob  had 
dispersed,  and  the  member  and  his  followers  were  at 
dinner,  the  young  man  rose  up,  replaced  in  his  pocket 
the  book  he  was  reading,  clambered  over  the  church- 
yard wall,  thus  avoiding  the  street,  passed  through  the 
big  meadow,  emerged  on  the  main  street  through  a 
side  lane,  and  made  his  way  rapidly  to  where  another 
lane  broke  the  line  of  houses  on  the  main  thoroughfare. 
A  policeman  was  standing  near  the  entrance  to  the 
lane.  Groups  of  idlers  were  scattered  here  and  there. 
A  drunken  fellow  detached  himself  from  one  of  these 
groups,  and  staggering  towards  Myles,  attempted  to 
assault  him. 

"You  d — d  young  puppy,"  he  said,  "how  dar'  you 
insult  our  member?" 

The  other  groups  broke  up,  and  seemed  disposed  to 
follow  the  fellow's  example;  and  the  constable  said: 

"You  had  better  make  for  home,  Mr.  Cogan.  There 
is  some  ugly  temper  abroad  tonight!" 

Quite  puzzled,  Myles  slipped  quietly  up  along  the 
lane;  and  looking  around  to  see  that  he  was  not  fol- 
lowed, he  plunged  under  a  narrow  archway,  entered 
a  low  cabin,  passed  through,  and  into  an  immense 
livery  stable,  that  fronted  another  street. 

Here,  a  young  man  was  polishing  harness.  He 
touched  his  cap  to   Myles,   who  seemed  to  take  no 


A  STORY  OF  '67  39 

further  notice  of  him,  but  clambered  up  a  rude  ladder, 
and  was  in  the  midst  of  his  comrades. 

Instead  of  the  usual  formal  salutations  he  was 
received  this  night  with  smiles  and  smothered  laughter, 
which  puzzled  him  not  a  little.  But  he  was  in  a  pretty 
savage  mood,  and  calling  the  men  together,  after  putting 
the  usual  questions  about  the  secret  drillings  that  were 
going  on  all  round  the  town,  etc.,  he  uttered,  in  a  kind 
of  suppressed  fury,  his  meditations  in  the  church-yard. 

Whenever  he  spoke  in  this  manner,  the  men  forgot 
their  usual  familiarity,  and  were  stricken  into  silence 
by  the  furious  eloquence  that  broke  from  the  lips  of 
their  young  leader.  He  was  no  longer  their  boy- 
captain,  daring,  enthusiastic,  energetic;  but  he  took 
on  all  the  tones  of  a  passionate  patriotism,  breathing 
infinite  pity  for  all  who  had  fallen  in  the  glorious  fight 
for  freedom,  and  vengeance  on  all  who  had  contributed 
to  that  fall.  He  broke  into  snatches  of  wild  Gaelic 
poetry,  now  sinking  his  voice  into  a  wail  of  despair, 
now  lifting  it  in  accents  of  unmeasured  hope;  and  the 
men  said  in  their  hearts: 

"No  hand  but  one  would  hang  that  black  flag  out  of 
his  father's  house  tonight!" 

Then  suddenly  repressing  his  enthusisam,  he  came 
down  to  cold  particulars,  and  asked: 

"Were  those  goods  from  Cork  safely  placed  last 
night?" 

"Begor,  they  wor,"  said  Murty  Linehan.  "They 
won't  come  to  life  again  till  they're  wanted." 

"Who  brought  them  from  the  station?" 

"Jem  Mooney,  of  course,  —  Mooney,  the  carrier." 

"I  understood,"  said  Myles,  sternly,  "that  it  was 
Crowley,  and  not  Mooney,  who  was  to  bring  them. 
Were  not  these  my  orders?" 


40  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Begor,  they  wor,  Captain;  but  sure  Crowley  was 
a  worse  case  than  Mooney.  Mooney  could  talk,  but 
he  couldn't  walk.  But,  begor,  Crowley  could  do 
nayther." 

"Nice  fellows  to  have  the  lives  of  men,  like  you,  in 
their  hands!"  said  Myles.     "But  the  goods  are  safe!" 

"Faith,  they  are!  and  no  one  likely  to  disturb  them 
without  ordhers,"  said  Murty. 

There  was  a  suppressed  laugh,  that  meant  some- 
thing, and  Myles  said  curtly: 

"What  happened?" 

"Wisha,  not  much,"  said  Murty,  "but  before  we 
buried  the  corp',  we  thought  there  should  be  no  mourn- 
ers, so  I  wint  ahead  laving  the  coffin  to  these  bouchals. 
And  lo  and  behold  you;  jest  as  I  thought,  I  heard 
the  sound  of  voices,  and  begor!  'twasn't  keening  they 
wor,  but  joking  like  mad;  and  sure  enough  there  were 
two  of  the  indepindent  electors  of  the  ould,  ancient 
borough,  sitting  on  a  tomb-stone  and  counting  the 
notes  for  all  they  were  worth.  Thin,  they  got  sarious, 
and  thin,  they  begin  to  quarrel.  'I'll  settle  the  dis- 
pute soon,  my  bouchals,'  ses  I,  and  with  that  I  slipped 
away,  and  got  a  good  big  sheet  and  tied  and  pinned  it 
around  me,  and  stole  up  behind  thim.  'He  said  I 
was  to  get  half,'  said  Ned  Tuohy.  'Half  what?'  said 
Collar  the  Swag.  'Half  the  money?'  said  Ned, 
'that  ould  Hinnessy  said  would  be  here.'  I  pushed  a 
bit  nearer  and  stood  over  them.  'I  was  promised 
twinty,'  says  Ned  Tuohy,  'and  I  must  get  them.' 
'He  said  we  wor  to  go  fair  halves,'  said  Collar  and 
Swag.  And  begor,  they'd  have  come  to  blows  soon  if 
I  didn't  put  in  my  arram,  betune  them.  Pil-a-miloo! 
But  Cole  Ahern's  best  greyhound  couldn't  bate  them. 
They  let  a  screech  out  o'  them  that  should  wake  the 


A  STORY  OF  '67  41 

dead;  and  Ned  fell  over  the  wall  into  the  meadow,  and 
Collar  jumped  the  wall  into  the  saw-yard,  though  begor 
in  his  right  sinses  he  could  no  more  jump  a  straw  than 
Bill  Lehane!" 

"But  the  notes!  Murty?     Where  are  the  notes?" 
"Oh — h,"  said    Murty,  solemnly,  "av  coorse,  they 
wint  back  to  the  'mimber.'     He  has  a  lot  of  expinses, 


poor  man 


Myles,  who  was  always  desperately  in  earnest, 
turned  the  conversation. 

"You  saw  the  hussars  these  days,  marching  up  and 
down  the  town?" 

"Begor,  we  did,"  said  Murty,  who  was  in  a  very 
jocular  mood,  "and  purty  little  fellows  they'd  be  at 
an  evening  tay-party.  It  was  the  greatest  wandher 
to  me  how  they  held  up  their  swords  at  all,  at  all;  but 
sure  they  couldn't,  only  they  laned  them  against  their 
showlders." 

"Do  you  think  our  pikes  would  reach  them  before 
they  could  strike?"   said  Myles. 

"Yerra,  the  head  of  a  pike  would  be  through  their 
carcass,  before  they  could  lift  their  sabres!"  said 
another  warrior.  "But  I'm  afraid  the  hatchet  would 
be  no  use  now,  because  they  have  put  chains,  instead 
of  leather,  on  their  bridles." 

"Don't  be  talking  nonsense,  men,"  said  James 
Halpin,  the  schoolmaster,  breaking  in  angrily  on  the 
debate.  "I  saw  these  men,  too,  and  if  they  are  boys, 
they're  pretty  stalwart  fellows;  and  they  have  been 
drilled  and  drilled  — " 

"Begor,  if  drilling  wor  any  use,"  said  Murty,  break- 
ing in,  "we  have  enough  of  it  ourselves.  Divil  such 
a  drill-master  as  yourself,  Mr.  Halpin,  in  the  whole 
British  army!" 


42  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Let  us  stop  this  nonsense,  Sir,"  said  the  teacher, 
addressing  Myles,  respectfully.  "If  our  movement  is 
to  come  to  anything,  we  must  look  before  us,  and  make 
our  calculations.  Just  imagine  a  lot  of  our  poor  fel- 
lows with  pikes  and  spades  in  their  hands,  facing  first 
a  battery  of  artillery,  with  its  shells  and  grape  and 
canister;  and  then,  when  half  of  our  men  have  been 
swept  away,  imagine  a  troop  of  these  dragoons,  with 
their  splendid  horses  swooping  down  on  the  disordered 
ranks,  drawing  their  pistols  from  their  holsters,  firing 
right  and  left,  into  our  ranks,  and  then  sabring  the 
rest  with  all  the  merciless  fury  of  British  soldiers! 
Let  us  face  the  truth,  Sir,"  he  continued,  "and  don't 
let  us  deceive  ourselves  fatally!" 

The  little  speech  threw  a  damper  on  their  spirits, 
until  one  said: 

"But  supposing  that  half  these  men  were  on  our  side, 
and  supposing  they  fired  over  our  heads  — " 

"And  then,  you  ran  over  and  kissed  them,  like 
Frenchmen,"  said  Halpin.  "What  d — d  rot!  Why, 
we  are  talking  like  so  many  fools,  who  don't  seem  to 
know  what  difference  there  is  between  a  shell  and  an 
old  kettle!" 

"There's  a  great  deal  in  what  Mr.  Halpin  says," 
said  Myles,  thoughtfully,  although  he  was  always 
displeased  when  anything  was  said  to  depress  these 
poor  fellows.  "Now,  we  must  look  before  us,  and 
talk  the  matter  over,  and  realise  what  actual  warfare 
is  like.  I  have  got  some  military  maps  of  Napoleon's 
battles,  —  Areola,  Lodi,  Marengo,  and  Austerlitz.  We 
must  study  those  carefully,  and  try  and  see  what  actual 
war  is.  It  is  no  child's  play;  but,  where  there  is 
truth  and  courage  and  brotherhood,  and  an  invincible 
determination  to   fight  the  thing  out  to   victory  or 


A  STORY  OF  '67  43 

death,  all  will  be  right !  There  may  be  disappointment 
and  suffering,  but  there  can  be  no  defeat  to  brave 
men!" 

Words  that  were  welcomed  with  suppressed  cheers, 
whilst  some  of  the  men  scowled  at  Halpin,  as  if  he 
were  a  traitor. 

Myles  Cogan  slipped  away  quietly,  and  passing 
down  through  some  obscure  lanes,  he  found  himself 
on  the  great  bridge  that  spans  the  noble  river  which 
divides  the  town  in  two.  The  river  was  rather  low 
and  underfed  now  after  the  great  summer  heats;  and 
he  looked  at  it,  and  at  every  ripple  on  its  broad  bosom, 
with  a  certain  kind  of  tenderness,  when  he  heard  a 
footstep  behind  him,  and  an  old  woman,  who  was 
passing  by,  said: 

"They're  afther  hunting  the  town  for  you,  Masther 
Mylie.  You're  wanting  over  at  the  house.  Miss 
Agnes  is  looking  everywhere  for  you!" 

"For  me?     What's  the  matter?"  he  said. 

"Wisha!  How  could  the  likes  of  me  know?"  the 
old  woman  replied,  "but  I  heard  the  people  saying 
that  Miss  Agnes  was  looking  everywhere  for  you." 

"All-right!     Good-night,  Nellie!" 

"Good-night,  Masther  Mylie!  And  God  keep  you, 
and  God  preserve  you  to  your  counthry!" 


VII 

When  he  entered  the  hall,  the  lights  still  burning, 
and  the  deep  silence,  showed  that  something  unusual 
had  taken  place.  He  went  into  the  breakfast  parlour 
at  the  left,  and  touched  the  bell.  The  servant  appeared; 
and  he  asked  if  Miss  Agnes  had  retired.  He  was  afraid 
to  say:  "Father!"  No!  Miss  Agnes  had  not  retired. 
She  would  call  her. 

Presently,  Agnes  came  down  stairs,  her  eyes  swollen 
from  weeping,  and  without  looking  at  her  brother,  she 
sank  into  a  chair,  saying: 

"Mylie!  oh,  Mylie!" 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  afraid  to  ask 
any  questions;  yet  more  afraid  of  the  doubt  and  uncer- 
tainty that  surrounded  him.  At  last  he  stood  over 
his  sister,  and  said: 

"Something  has  happened,  Agnes!  What  is  it? 
Anything  wrong  with  father?" 

She  moaned  helplessly  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then 
said: 

"Dying!" 

"Father  dying!  Where?  How?  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

But  she  wouldn't  reply. 

He  left  her,  and  went  upstairs.  The  physician  was 
there  and  some  nurse  from  town.  Myles  shook 
hands  with  him,  and  instantly  turned  towards  the 
bed. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  45 

His  father  lay  on  his  back,  breathing  heavily.  His 
face  was  flushed.     He  was  quite  unconscious. 

Myles  looked  down  earnestly  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  said  to  the  doctor: 

"A  fit  of  some  kind?" 

"Yes!     Apoplectic  seizure!" 

"How  did  it  occur?     Where?" 

"In  the  town-house.     Upstairs!" 

"The  town-house?  Why,  'twas  locked  up  all  the 
evening.     What  could  have  taken  him  there?" 

"Don't  know.  Father  James  is  in  the  drawing- 
room  downstairs.     He  saw  all:   I  was  called  here!" 

"Is  father's  condition  serious?"  said  Myles,  after 
a  pause. 

"Hopeless!"  said  the  doctor.  "An  artery,  one  of 
the  small  ones,  is  ruptured  in  the  brain.  There  is 
much  effusion  of  blood.     He  cannot  live  till  morning." 

"You  have  done  everything  that  could  be  done?" 

"Everything!" 

"And,  of  course,  there  is  no  use  in  summoning  any 
one  else!" 

"There  will  be  no  time!" 

Myles  shuddered,  and  went  out.  He  tried  to  recall 
his  last  interview  with  his  father.  He  recalled  with 
pleasure  the  fact,  that  they  had  parted  amicably,  and 
that  he  had  not  formally  disobeyed.  He  entered  the 
drawing-room.  Father  James  was  walking  up  and 
down,  restless  and  uneasy.     Myles  said: 

"This  is  a  terrible  affair!  What  can  have  happened? 
I  understood  that  Father  was  in  the  waggonnette  with 
Serjeant  Holloway!" 

The  priest  eyed  him  keenly  for  a  few  seconds.  He 
thought  he  was  prevaricating.  But  Myles  met  his 
eye  firmly,  and  the  priest  said: 


46  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Sit  down!"  And  then:  "You  know  nothing  of 
this  affair?" 

"What  affair?  I'm  completely  mystified.  I  can- 
not get  an  explanation  from  anyone." 

"They  don't  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings.  Tell  me 
briefly,  what  do  3'ou  know  of  the  black  flag  that  was 
hung  out  of  your  windows  during  the  procession?" 

"This  is  the  first  I  heard  of  it.  Black  flag?  Did 
anyone  dare  to  offer  such  a  mean  outrage?" 

"Yes!  Amidst  all  the  bunting,  absurd  and  servile 
I  know,  a  black  flag,  with  skull  and  cross-bones,  was 
drooping  down  from  the  top  windows  of  No.  167.  It 
has  killed  your  father.  He  got  away  from  the  waggon- 
nette,  you  can  imagine  in  what  a  state;  broke  in  the 
wicket  at  the  rear  of  the  garden,  found  the  kitchen 
door  wide  open,  tore  madly  upstairs,  and  there  was 
found  in  a  fit,  his  hand  on  the  bamboo  rod  to  which 
the  heavy  flag  was  nailed,  and  which  protruded  through 
the  window." 

Myles  was  silent  with  anger  at  the  outrage,  with 
shame  for  the  family  honour;  with  bitter  sorrow,  that, 
in  all  human  probability,  his  father  might  have  thought 
that  his  was  the  hand  that  offered  such  a  gratuitous 
insult.  Then  he  said,  wiping  the  beads  of  shame  from 
his  forehead: 

"I  presume  I  am  set  down  as  the  author  of  this 
outrage?  That  is  human  opinion,  always  erroneous 
and  malignant,  which  I  can  afford  to  despise.  But, 
0  father,  father!  could  j'ou  have  thought  that  it  was 
I ?" 

He  broke  down  in  a  paroxysm  of  tears.  The  priest 
felt  for  him. 

"Myles!"  he  said  gently,  "you  have  taken  a  mighty 
load  off  my  mind.     Everyone  thinks  it  was  you.     And 


A  STORY  OF  '67  47 

yet  I  said  to  more  than  one  —  '  Myles  Cogan  couldn't 
do  such  a  cowardly  and  mean  act.  We  know  his 
feelings;  but  that  was  a  low  proceeding,  and  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it!'" 

Myles  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  grasped  the 
priest's. 

"I  swear  before  God  and  you  that  I  had  neither 
hand,  act,  or  part  in  that  affair;  nor  have  I  the  slight- 
est suspicion  who  is  guilty  of  it.  A  deadly  enemy, 
I'm  sure!" 

"/  never  suspected  you,  Myles!"  said  the  priest, kindly, 
"but  you  see,  my  boy,  into  what  dangers  your  present 
associations  lead  you.  Yes,  I  know,"  he  continued, 
as  Myles  made  a  gesture  of  appeal,  "you  don't  like  me 
to  speak  of  the  subject,  but,  perhaps,  terrible  as  your 
poor  father's  loss  is  now  to  you,  and  Agnes,  and  to 
us  all,  has  it  not  a  hidden  grace,  —  a  grace  of  warning 
to  you  to  pause,  and  pause  again,  on  the  road  to  ruin? 
You  see  now  how  treacherous  your  associates  are!" 

"I  don't  believe  for  a  moment  that  it  was  any  of 
our  men  did  it.  They  are  incapable  of  such  a  thing. 
Stop!  I  have  it.  They  chased  away  last  night  some 
scoundrels  who  were  pocketing  or  rather  fighting  for 
bribes  in  the  churchyard;  and  this  is  their  revenge,  — 
just  what  such  fellows  are  capable  of  doing.  No  Fenian 
ever  did  it.  But  leave  it  to  me  now.  I  shall  soon 
know  who  did  it,  and  it  will  be  the  sorriest  day  he  ever 
saw!" 

"There  —  revenge  and  hatred!  Everything  more 
anti-Christian  than  another.  How  in  the  world, 
Myles  Cogan,  did  you  spring  from  such  parents?" 

"It  was  my  mother  taught  me  to  love  Ireland," 
said  Myles.  "Probably,  I  would  be  a  tippler,  and 
night-walker,  but  for  that." 


48  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Surely,  you  don't  mean,"  said  the  priest,  "that 
a  man  must  be  sworn  in  an  illicit  organisation,  con- 
demned by  the  Church,  in  order  to  avoid  vice  and 
crime?" 

"You  know  us  all,  Father,"  said  Myles.  "Can 
you  point  to  a  man  amongst  us,  who  is  not  leading  a 
cleanly  and  honourable  life?  Yes,"  he  continued, 
forgetting  himself,  "whatever  be  our  folly  or  our  faults, 
believe  me  there  is  some  consecrating  power  in  patriot- 
ism that  burns  up  all  baser  passions.  'Tis  the  holy 
fire  that  consumes  all  grossness  and  baseness  in  men." 

"Yes!  Patriotism  well-directed,"  said  the  priest, 
"and  sanctioned  by  reason  and  religion;  not  —  but 
we  are  irreverent  in  discussing  such  subjects  now  in 
the  presence  of  the  dying.  But  —  one  question  more 
to  set  my  mind  at  rest,  and  help  me  to  defend  you." 

"I  need  no  defence.  Father  James,"  said  the  young 
man,  proudly.  "My  conscience  absolves  me.  That  is 
enough." 

"Very  well.  But  you  can  have  no  objection  to  tell 
me  where  you  were  when  the  outrage  on  your  father 
was  committed." 

"Not  the  least.  I  was  praying  and  reading,  alter- 
nately.    I  was  sitting  on  my  mother's  grave!" 

"Come  upstairs,  now!"  said  the  priest. 


VIII 

James  Halpin  was  one  of  those  silent  enthusiasts 
whom  Ireland  produces  from  time  to  time,  just  to 
show  that  the  breed  of  strong  men  has  not  altogether 
perished.  So  far  as  his  outer  life  was  concerned,  he 
was,  to  human  observation,  a  poor,  rather  weary,  and 
tired  schoolmaster,  without  much  hope  of  ever  reach- 
ing the  summits  of  life.  And  yet,  his  spirit  soared  to 
higher  Alps  than  those  which  the  ordinary  successful 
tourist  trod,  for  he  walked  with  spirits,  —  the  spirits 
of  the  immortal  dead,  and  the  spirit-creatures  of  his 
own  imagination.  During  his  daily  tasks  in  school, 
he  laboured  gently  and  perseveringly  in  training  these 
young  minds  and  helping  them  up  the  steep  paths  of 
knowledge.  He  was  hardly  popular.  He  was  feared, 
not  from  any  severity  or  practical  discipline,  but  from 
a  certain  aloofness,  or  coldness,  which  never  permitted 
him  to  come  down  to  their  level,  or  show  what  was 
human  in  him.  Yet,  if  any  close  observer  had  watched 
him,  as  he  cast  his  eyes  along  the  rows  of  boys  in  read- 
ing classes,  and  thought,  what  splendid  material 
is  here,  could  it  be  worked!  or,  as  he  bent  down  over  the 
paper,  where  some  promising  lad  was  working  out  a 
difficult  problem,  he  would  have  seen  that  this  grave 
man  had  not  lost  all  interest  in  life;  but  would  like 
to  touch  these  young  lives  to  finer  issues  than  mere 
bread-winning,  or  wife-hunting,  or  honour-seeking,  if 
he   could.     Yet,   strange   to   say,    whenever   he   came 


•50  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

down  to  their  level,  and  talked  to  them  familiarly, 
he  always  felt  as  if  he  had  lost  something,  and  he 
went  away  with  a  certain  self-loathing,  as  of  one  who 
had  descended  from  his  own  sphere. 

But  at  night,  in  the  humble  room  which  he  rented 
in  a  back  street,  he  gave  himself  up  to  dreams,  and 
such  dreams.  Dreams  of  a  bygone,  long-lost  Ireland, 
when  her  sons  were  clad  in  coats  of  mail,  wore  bur- 
nished helmets,  and  shining  steel  armour  over  saffron 
tunics,  and  her  ladies  were  clad  in  shimmering  silk, 
and  wore  gold  fillets  in  their  hair,  and  sandals  shining 
with  silver  clasps  and  pearls.  Dreams  of  old  abbeys 
with  their  vast  choirs  of  monks,  and  vaster  multitudes 
of  students  who  thronged  here  from  Europe  to  drink 
at  this  perennial  fount  of  learning.  Dreams  of  ancient 
splendours,  when  Kings  sat  in  their  halls,  their  queens 
beside  them;  and  knights  and  warriors  felt  them- 
selves enkindled  by  ancient  sagas  sung  by  long-bearded 
bards,  and  the  deeds  of  ancient  prowess  told  by  Sena- 
chies.  Dreams  of  haunted  castles  by  the  sea;  and 
hillsides,  where  fairies  danced  in  the  moonlight,  and 
witches  practised  their  horrid  spells;  and  the  spirits 
of  the  dead  arose,  and  carried  on  their  mimic  battles 
at  midnight;  and  mighty  chieftains  came  out  from 
their  graves  in  the  moonlit  abbeys,  and  walked  over 
battle-fields,  the  very  names  of  which  are  forgotten. 
Dreams  of  more  sombre  times,  when  the  people  were 
harried  and  driven  from  post  to  post,  by  mail-clad 
warriors  from  over  the  sea;  and  kings  had  to  seek 
shelter  in  mountain  cabins,  and  beg  their  bread  from 
wayfarers  like  themselves.  Dreams  of  midnight  masses 
held  in  lonely  forests,  or  in  the  deep  recesses  of  the 
mountain,  with  sentinels  all  round  to  watch  if  a  speck 
of  the  dreaded  "red"  of  trooper  or  yeoman  could  be 


A  STORY  OF  '67  SI 

seen  afar.  Dreams  of  a  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows,  of 
strong  giants,  gaunt  like  wolves  from  hunger,  with 
wolfish  hunger  in  their  eyes;  of  mothers,  stilling  their 
children's  gnawing  pain  by  snatches  of  old  ditties  or 
scraps  of  stories  from  a  certain  golden  age;  of  priests 
bending  down  and  kneeling  in  the  snow  to  anoint  the 
famine  and  fever-stricken  multitudes;  of  a  people 
flying  from  destruction  to  destruction;  from  a  land 
of  famine  and  terror  to  the  rotten  ships  that  were  to 
cast  them  into  the  sea,  or  on  an  unfriendly  land. 
Dreams  of  scaffolds  and  pitch-caps,  of  patriots  flying 
in  the  hour  of  a  nation's  defeat  to  the  hills  and  fast- 
nesses of  the  land;  of  brave  women,  refusing  enormous 
bribes,  of  base  men,  betraying  their  captains  and 
leaders.  Dreams  of  English  prisons  with  all  their 
horrors,  lighted  only  by  the  heroism  that  shone  like 
a  halo  around  the  cropped  heads  and  the  garments 
of  shame  which  English  law  put  upon  Irish  patriots. 
And  dreams,  and  these  recurred  the  oftenest,  of  the 
Ireland,  for  whom  all  this  was  patiently  endured  — 
that  mysterious  motherland,  who,  with  all  her  weight 
of  woes  upon  her,  had  j'et  the  power  to  sway  the 
mightiest  minds  to  which  she  had  given  birth,  even 
though  they  were  of  alien  and  hostile  blood,  and  to 
inspire  poet  and  orator  and  patriot  wath  such  a  love 
for  her,  that  they  walked  to  the  scaffold  as  if  to  a  bridal 
altar;  and  gave  up  their  lives  as  calmly  as  Isaac  bent 
beneath  the  sacrificial  knife  of  his  father.  And  what 
was  this  mysterious  motherland,  this  veiled  and  clois- 
tered queen,  who  commanded  such  devotion,  such 
loyalty,  such  passionate  and  reverential  homage  from 
her  sons?  And  the  eyes  of  the  solitary  went  out  and 
wandered  over  heath-clad  mountains,  which  the  winter 
torrents   seamed   yellow   with   their   fierce   embraces; 


52  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

over  wet  fields,  which  the  skirts  of  the  rain-clouds  were 
ever  sweeping,  and  leaving  sodden  and  sunken  with 
their  deluges;  over  the  lonely  moorlands,  dark  even 
on  a  summer  day  from  the  reflection  of  the  black  bogs 
beneath  on  the  gloomy  clouds  above,  where  the  heron 
and  the  moor  hen  have  their  abodes,  and  the  shy 
canabhan  waves  its  little  flag  of  white  over  peat-pits 
sunk  in  pools  of  stagnant  water,  along  the  white  roads 
that  seem  to  go  everywhere  and  nowhere,  now  into 
deep  sombre  valleys,  and  anon  climbing  white  and 
dusty  over  treeless  hills;  across  the  lakelands,  sorrow- 
ful in  their  very  beauty,  and  down  to  the  eternal  seas 
that  chafe  the  cliffs,  and  moan  for  ever  their  lonely 
dirges  over  a  land,  ancient  as  the  earth  itself,  and 
burthened  with  all  the  sorrows  of  a  fallen  and  irre- 
deemable world.  And  along  the  track  of  his  fancies, 
and  accompanying  them  with  their  own  wild  and 
unearthly  music,  went  the  winds  of  Ireland,  with  their 
burden  of  melancholy  and  sorrow,  wailing  out  their 
breath  where  the  heather  dies  and  the  red  sandstone 
from  which  the  cairns  of  kings  are  made,  begins; 
or  along  the  lonely  lake  shore,  where  some  old  ruin 
looks  down,  and  counts  the  centuries  since  its  shadow 
first  fell  in  the  gloomy  waters  beneath. 

And  all  this  the  lonely  watcher  saw,  as  the  smoke 
curled  upwards  through  the  chimney,  and  the  red 
cinders  fell  beneath  the  bars. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Dan  Cogan 
was  buried.  He  had  been  interred  with  all  honours. 
High-Mass  had  been  sung  over  his  remains,  and  an 
immense  cavalcade  had  accompanied  them  to  the  local 
churchyard.  It  was  not  usual,  but  James  Halpin 
thought  it  a  kind  of  duty  to  call  upon  his  chief.  He 
will  be  lonely,  he  thought,  over  there  in  that  big  house; 


A  STORY  OF  '67  53 

and  I  shall  waive  ceremony,  and  call  upon  him.  He 
had  a  great  love  for  Myles,  —  for  this  big  strong  youth, 
with  the  noble  figure  and  the  mobile  face.  And  he 
felt  that  Myles  was  only  his  own  pupil.  Was  it  not 
he,  a  poor  assistant  schoolmaster,  who  had  indoctri- 
nated this  young  Celt  with  his  own  ideas,  and  then 
spurred  him  on  to  action? 

He  passed  along  the  streets,  still  shuttered  and  in 
mourning,  crossed  the  bridge,  and  passed  along  the 
suburb,  beyond  which  Millbank,  a  fine  square  house, 
looked  down  upon  the  river.  His  hand  was  on  the 
latch  of  the  little  iron  gate  that  led  into  the  lawn, 
when  a  sudden  thought  struck  him:  Shall  I  be  wel- 
come? or  shall  I  be  an  intruder?  For  alas!  he  knew 
well  that  in  this  little  town  as  elsewhere  in  Ireland, 
there  were  class-distinctions,  little  grades  and  castes, 
mounting  up  from  the  lowest  strata  to  the  highest,  and 
cut  away  from  one  another  by  some  rigid  legislation, 
which  was  never  named,  and  never  questioned.  The 
popular  saying:  that  twopence  half-penny  did  not 
know  twopence!  was  literally  true;  and  the  young 
schoolmaster  paused  for  a  moment  to  ask  would  such 
a  visit,  even  of  condolence,  be  acceptable?  And  then, 
there  was  a  j'oung  ladj'',  whom  he  had  met,  once  or 
twice,  in  her  brother's  company;  and  she  had  smiled 
on  him.  It  was  wonderful,  very  wonderful  to  a  young 
man  who  had  the  deep  consciousness  that  he  was  only 
a  schoolmaster. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said  at  last  to  himself,  "Myles 
Cogan  is  a  man  and  a  comrade.  I  know  him  from 
his  hair  to  his  heel!" 

He  crossed  the  lawn  and  knocked.  The  little  serv- 
ant opened  the  door,  and  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"Is  Mr.  Cogan  at  home? " 


54  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"No!"  she  said,  holding  the  door  half-shut.  "He 
went  out  with  Father  James  MacCarthy  a  half-hour 
ago!" 

She  was  wondering  what  this  schoolmaster  wanted 
with  her  master. 

"And  he's  not  likely  to  return  soon?" 

"We  don't  expect  him  home  before  ten,"  she  said. 
"He  seldom  comes  in  before  ten." 

"Well,  then,  would  you  kindly  say  that  Mr.  Halpin 
called.  'Tis  not  a  matter  of  business,  but  just  a  visit 
of  sympathy." 

The  maid  was  turning  over  the  pretty  phrase  in  her 
mind,  and  wondering  what  she  was  to  say,  when  the 
parlour  door  opened,  and  Agnes  Cogan  came  out. 
She  was  in  deep  mourning,  emphasized  with  much 
crape,  and  her  eyes  were  yet  stained  from  weeping,  but 
she  held  out  her  hand  cordially,  and  said: 

"Myles  will  be  so  sorry,  Mr.  Halpin.  But,  would 
you  come  in  for  a  moment?" 

He  blushed  and  stammered  something;  but  she 
held  the  door  open,  as  if  entreating  him  to  enter;  and 
with  a  beating  heart  he  went  into  the  hall,  and  laid 
down  his  hat  and  cane.  She  opened  the  parlour  door, 
and  ushered  him  in.  Here,  to  his  horror,  was  another 
young  lady,  who  rose  as  he  entered,  and  bowed  rather 
stiffly,  when  Agnes  said: 

"Miss  Carleton,  Mr.  Halpin!" 

He  bowed,  looked  away  from  the  girls,  and  sat  down. 
Then,  by  a  tremendous  effort,  he  drew  himself  together 
and  said: 

"I  just  called  to  pay  a  visit  of  ceremony  to  Mr. 
Cogan.     I  am  greatly  grieved  by  all  that  has  happened." 

Then  tears  burst  forth  afresh  from  the  eyes  of  Agnes. 
Miss  Carleton  looked  coldly  through  the  window. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  55 

"Myles  went  out  with  Father  MacCarthy  just  after 
tea,"  said  Agnes.  "I  dare  say  he  will  remain  away 
until  bedtime.  They  have  always  a  good  many  things 
to  say  to  each  other." 

"Then  you  will  promise  to  come  up  tomorrow?" 
said  Miss  Carleton,  rising,  and  looking  very  stately. 

"If  at  all  possible!"  said  Agnes.  "But  must  you 
go,  Mary?" 

"Yes!  Papa  will  be  waiting  dinner  for  me.  Good- 
night, dear!" 

She  kissed  the  girl's  forehead,  and  Halpin  sprang 
to  the  door,  and  opened  it. 

"Thank  —  yaw!"  she  said. 

He  remained  a  few  moments  after;  and  then  took 
his  leave.  He  had  too  large  a  soul  to  resent;  but  it 
was  a  pained  spirit  that  crossed  the  bridge. 


IX 


Mary  Carleton  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  solic- 
itor in  the  town.  The  profession  at  once  raised  the 
family  to  the  rank  of  gentry;  and  as  such,  they  were 
not  supposed  to  be  on  social  terms  with  mere  shop- 
keepers, no  matter  how  wealthy.  Of  course,  in  busi- 
ness matters,  old  Edward  Carleton  was  on  terms  not 
only  of  affability,  but  even  of  confidential  friendship 
with  all  classes.  He  transacted  their  business,  took 
their  cheques,  called  them  by  their  Christian  names, 
attended  committee-meetings  with  them;  but,  just 
outside  his  office,  a  terrible  line  was  drawn,  and  there 
was  no  passing  that.  The  best  of  his  clients  was  never 
seen  at  his  dining-table;  and  the  ladies  of  the  family 
knew  no  one  below  their  own  circle.  Mrs.  Carleton 
and  her  daughter  did  not  recognize  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  clients  who  were  helping  them  to  wear 
those  silks  and  jewels,  which  were  a  surprise  even  to 
wealthy  aristocrats  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Hence,  between  Dan  Cogan's  family  and  Edward 
Carleton's  there  was  no  intimacy  whatsoever.  But  it 
happened,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  latter,  that  Dan 
Cogan  had  sent  his  only  daughter,  Agnes,  to  the  very 
same  Convent  in  England  where  Mary  Carleton  was 
studying.  It  was  an  utter  breach  of  propriety;  but 
Dan  was  a  wealthy  man,  and  thought  nothing  of  pay- 
ing eighty  pounds  a  year  for  his  daughter's  education; 
and  so  Agnes  Cogan  and  Mary  Carleton  were  brought 
together;  and,  like  good  Irish  girls,  struck  up  a  friend- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  57 

ship,  which  they  knew  would  be  discountenanced  at 
home.  But,  on  their  holidays,  and  especially  after 
they  had  left  school,  the  old  barriers  were  erected;  and 
Mrs.  Carleton  had  to  read  her  daughter  a  severe 
lecture  on  the  proprieties  before  the  latter  relinquished 
her  secret  hope  of  making  Agnes  Cogan  a  life-friend. 
Besides,  Agnes,  as  we  have  seen,  had  an  idol,  and  the 
incense  she  offered  him  was  wafted  sometimes  towards 
her  school-companion.  'In  secret  places  on  the  convent 
grounds,  Agnes  read  for  her  companion  certain  letters 
from  her  idol;  and  then  little  strange  comments  went 
back  to  Millbank;  and  then  little  scraps  of  poetry 
would  return;  and,  altogether,  Mary  Carleton  did 
conceive  an  interest  in  Myles  Cogan.  And  when  she 
came  home  finally  in  all  the  full  bloom  and  glory  of 
young  womanhood,  and  with  a  certain  lofty  ideal, 
physical  and  moral,  of  a  hero  before  her  mind,  she 
glanced  from  her  prayer-book  one  Sunday  at  Mass, 
and  realised  that  Myles  Cogan,  the  handsome,  sol- 
dierly young  rebel,  met,  and  more  than  met,  all  her 
heart's  demands.  And  he?  Well,  there  also  a  little 
flame  had  been  enkindled;  but  he  had  tried  to  ex- 
tinguish it  by  saying,  No  hope  so  high!  and  then  the 
whiter  flame  of  patriotism  had  well  nigh  annihilated 
the  sudden  flame  of  love. 

But,  besides,  there  was  no  passing  further  on  that 
road.  One  Sunday,  during  the  holidays,  Mary  Carle- 
ton, whilst  her  mother  was  talking  to  the  parish  priest, 
did  manage  to  exchange  a  few  words  with  Agnes 
Cogan.  The  priest  departed.  Mrs.  Carleton  came 
up  towards  the  girls,  stared  at  Agnes  in  a  stony  manner, 
and  bade  her  daughter  come  along.  Then,  there  was 
a  certain  lecture,  and  some  tears;  and  all  intercourse 
between  the  girls  was  broken  off,  until  the  sad  event 


58  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

of  Dan  Cogan's  death.  Then,  because  Dan  Cogan 
had  been  noticed  somewhat  by  the  "Member,"  for 
whom  Carleton  was  conducting  agent,  Mary  had  been 
allowed,  as  a  great  favour,  to  pay  a  visit  of  condolence 
to  her  former  friend;  but  the  acquaintance  was  to 
terminate  there. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  Myles  reached  his 
home  that  evening.  It  was  always  understood  that 
his  sister  and  the  servants  should  not  remain  up  for 
him.  The  lamp  was  lighted  on  the  parlour  table; 
and  beside  it  was  the  glass  of  milk  and  the  biscuits  that 
made  his  frugal  supper.  He  lingered  as  usual  at  the 
garden-gate,  leaning  over  it,  and  listening  to  the  mur- 
mur of  the  river,  as  it  stole  over  the  pebbles  beneath 
him.  He  was  pondering  many  things;  and  just  then 
he  was  much  disturbed  in  thought  after  his  interview 
with  the  priest.  The  latter  had  spoken  very  plainly 
to  the  young  idealist.  He  had  used  some  expressions 
that  rankled  in  memory,  "profitless  effusion  of  blood," 
"dragging  ignorant  men  to  doom,"  "playing  into  the 
hands  of  foreign  revolutionaries,"  "under  the  ban  and 
excommunication  of  the  Church,"  etc.  They  made 
him  uneasy,  for  he  had  nothing  reasonable  to  oppose 
to  them,  —  nothing  but  his  passionate  enthusiasm. 
He  paused,  reasoned,  and  was  turning  away  irresolute, 
when  a  stranger  crossed  the  road,  and  accosted  him. 

He  was  about  to  make  some  civil  excuse  when  the 
stranger  uttered  a  word.  Then  the  whole  attitude  of 
Myles  Cogan  changed.  He  doffed  his  hat,  shook  the 
hand  of  the  stranger  warmly,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
house. 

"I  have  to  apologise.  Colonel,"  he  said.  "But 
my  servants  do  not  remain  up  so  late.  But  I  can  give 
you  a  cigar  and  a  glass." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  59 

"Nothing  better!"  said  the  stranger,  as  Myles 
placed  the  decanter  on  the  table.  "But,"  he  pushed 
the  decanter  gently  aside,  "business  first.  You  are 
Head  Centre  here?" 

"Yes!"  said  Myles,  a  little  troubled  at  the  court- 
martial  air  the  stranger  assumed. 

"Then  let  me  tell  you  that  your  business  is  d — d 
badly  done!" 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  eyeing  the  young  man 
closely. 

"I  called  in  here  by  an  evening  train  from  Killarney; 
I  just  wanted  to  see  how  things  were  going  so  that  I 
could  report  across  the  water.  I  found  my  way  to  your 
fellows  that  were  drilling  as  easy  as  to  the  nearest 
public-house.  I  might  have  been  a  spy,  or  a  detec- 
tive. The  fellows  didn't  seem  to  mind.  Everything 
was  open  as  daylight.  I  asked  the  name  of  the  Cap- 
tain of  division.  Halpin.  Where's  Halpin?  Or  who's 
Halpin?  Or,  what's  Halpin?  A  half-blind  school- 
master, who  knows  no  more  about  drill  than  a  cowboy. 
I  asked,  where  are  your  arms?  In  garrets,  in  grave- 
yards, in  cow-houses  —  everywhere,  but  in  the  hands 
of  men.  I  put  a  few  military  questions,  that  would 
be  promptly  answered  by  the  rawest  recruit  in  the 
States.  They  knew  nothing.  And  I  want  to  ask  you: 
Is  this  a  specimen  of  the  'highly-organised  and  thor- 
oughly-drilled, and  efficiently-armed  force,'  that  is  to 
spring  to  action  the  moment  the  Irish-American  officers 
land  in  Queenstown?" 

Myles  was  struck  dumb;  and  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hands.  The  charge  was  true  and  untrue.  He  could 
not  deny;  he  could  not  refute.  He  tried  a  feeble 
excuse. 

"Everyone   knew   the    Fenians   were   being   drilled. 


60  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

There  was  little  concealment.  The  arms  were  all 
right  and  ready  for  action;  but,  of  course,  the  men, 
for  obvious  reasons,  could  not  practise  ball-firing.  But 
they  were  drilled  according  to  the  latest  manuals  from 
America;  and  Hal  pin,  although  but  a  schoolmaster, 
was  one  of  the  keenest  minds  in  Ireland." 

"I  have  gone  through  Kerry,"  said  the  officer,  as  if 
speaking  to  himself,  "and  'tis  the  same  story  every- 
where. No  artillery,  little  ammunition,  no  experi- 
ence, no  practice;  cobblers  and  schoolmasters  — 
captains  and  drill  masters;  and  I  am  asked  to  bring 
over  brave  men  here  to  head  such  a  disorganised  mass, 
and  put  my  own  and  their  necks  into  English  halters. 
By  G—  I'll  think  twice  about  it." 

He  drew  over  the  decanter;   and  lit  a  cigar. 

"But,  by  heavens,"  he  said,  "there's  grit  in  the 
country  still.  Over  there,  whilst  I  was  hectoring  and 
cursing  these  fellows,  their  sentries,  as  they  called  them, 
haled  in  two  little  chaps,  who  were  playing  spies,  they 
said.  They  were  little  fellows  about  twelve  or  four- 
teen. They  were  b'^dly  frightened,  when  I  challenged 
them.  No,  they  v/eren't  spies;  but  they  wanted  to 
join  the  Irish  Republican  Brotherhood,  as  drummers 
or  bandboys.  I  insisted  they  were  spies,  and  that 
they  would  inform  the  government.  'By  Jove!'  the 
oldest  little  chap  said  promptly,  'you  lie!  I  don't 
know  who  you  are;  but  we're  as  good  Irishmen  as  you.' 
I  told  them  I  could  not  risk  the  necks  of  so  many  men 
for  the  sake  of  two  over-curious  boys;  and  I  told  them 
they  should  die.  The  little  chap  blubbered  a  little; 
but  the  big  chap  rubbed  his  hands  on  his  little  pants, 
and  defied  me.  I  stepped  back,  and  drew  my  revolver. 
The  men  thought  I  meant  something;  and  begged  me 
not  to  hurt  them.     I  told  the  boys  to  kneel  down  and 


A  STORY  OF  '67  61 

say  their  prayers  They  knelt.  '  Now,  stand  up,'  I  said, 
'and  prepare  to  die.  It  is  the  fate  of  spies  the  wide 
world  over.'  'I  tell  you  again,'  said  the  little  fellow, 
'that  you're  a  liar,  if  you  were  a  Colonel  or  a  General 
ten  times  over.'  I  advanced,  holding  the  revolver 
steady  between  his  eyes.  He  never  blenched.  I  came 
up  close,  and  pressed  the  mouth  of  the  pistol  on  his 
left  temple.  He  shut  his  eyes,  the  brave  little  beggar, 
but  never  cried,  nor  whimpered.  I  let  the  muzzle 
fall.  'What's  your  name,  boy?'  'I  won't  tell  you,' 
he  said.  'You're  a  British  spy  yourself.'  'What's 
his  name?'  I  said  to  the  men.  'Philip  Shea,'  they 
said.  'Then  Philip  Shea,  Colonel  Costelloe  hereby 
nominates  j'ou  lieutenant  in  this  detachment  of  the 
Irish  Revolutionary  forces.'  The  fellow  looked  a  man 
on  the  instant.  I  suppose  he'll  be  hanged  some  day. 
But,  I  have  to  make  my  report,  which  is  this:  That 
the  Irish  Revolutionary  forces  are  no  more  fit  to  take 
the  field  against  England  than  a  lot  of  Down  South 
niggers,  who  never  handled  any  weapon  but  a  hoe. 
'Tis  the  ineffectual  Celt  all  over  again!" 


X 


Myles  had  a  bad  night.  The  words  of  the  priest 
and  the  words  of  the  American  officer  combined  to 
make  a  deep  impression  upon  him.  That  last  word  of 
Colonel  Costelloe,  "the  ineffectual  Celt,"  beat  through 
his  brain  all  night,  and  left  him  haggard  in  the  morn- 
ing.    His  sister  was  quick  to  perceive  it. 

''You  had  a  late  visitor?"  she  said,  as  she  handed 
him  the  tea  at  breakfast. 

"How  do  you  know?     You  were  fast  asleep." 

"But  there's  an  odour  of  cigars  here;  and  the  de- 
canter has  gone  down  several  degrees." 

"You  miserable  little  skinflint,"  he  said.  "Measur- 
ing the  decanter!  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  in 
an  Irish  house?" 

"But  you  had  a  visitor?"  Agnes  persisted.  "And 
he  wasn't  a  gentleman  to  call  on  you  at  such  an  hour, 
and  after  such  a  day." 

"He  knew  nothing  of  our  bereavement,"  said  Myles. 
"He  called  on  business!" 

"You  are  not  disposed  to  tell  me  anything  about 
him,"  she  said.  "Very  good!  Then  you  shall  hear 
nothing  of  my  visitors.  I  can  keep  my  own 
secrets." 

"I  am  at  least  glad  that  someone  called  on  you," 
he  said.  "I  was  saying  to  Father  MacCarthy  that 
you  would  probably  feel  lonely  last  night;  and  I 
wanted  to  stay  at  home." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  63 

"And  escape  a  lecture?" 

"Well,  yes!  He  said  that  young  housekeepers  are 
never  lonely.     They  find  a  hundred  things  to  do." 

"So  you  got  the  lecture,  and  you  missed  — ?" 

He  looked  up  puzzled.  He  was  pretty  careless  whom 
he  had  missed.  Heavier  thoughts  were  pressing  upon 
him. 

"You  are  not  curious?" 

"Not  in  the  least!" 

"Then  I  needn't  tell?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Mr.  Halpin  called!" 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?     What  did  he  want?" 

"Nothing.  Just  to  pay  you  a  visit  of  condolence," 
he  said.  "  He  was  turning  away  from  the  door,  when 
I  called  him  in." 

"I'm  very  glad.  He's  an  excellent  fellow  —  as  true 
as  steel." 

"They're  not  always  appreciated.  Mary  treated 
him  rather  cavalierly,  if  I  may  say  so!" 

"Mary?     What  Mary?" 

"There's  only  one  Mary  in  the  world  now." 

"Miss  Carleton?" 

"Yes!" 

"And  she  called  at  Millbank?  What  a  condescen- 
sion! And  snubbed  poor  Halpin,  who  is  worth  a 
hundred  like  her!" 

"Myles!" 

"Well?" 

"What's  come  over  you?  I'm  speaking  of  Miss 
Mary  Carleton,  my  former  friend  and  fellow-pupil  — " 

"I'm  not  interested,"  he  said.  "But  poor  Halpin  — 
was  he  badly  hurt?" 

"Very!     When  he  came  back  from  the  door,  which 


64  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

he  had  gracefully  opened,  he  began  to  talk  like  an 
insane  person!" 

"That's  not  his  way.     He's  pretty  level-headed." 

''Of  course.  But,  you  must  remember  that  it  was 
probably  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  met  a  beauti- 
ful girl,  and  that  she  —  well,  ignored  him." 

"Yes,  'twas  trying.  But  Halpin  is  not  a  man  to 
wilt  under  a  stroke  like  that!  He  is  too  much  of  a 
philosopher!" 

"Indeed?  That  reminds  me.  He  said,  amongst 
other  wild  things  —  this  was  before  Mary  left,  how- 
ever, that  three  classes  of  persons  enter  politics  —  the 
fool,  the  rogue,  and  the  philosopher.  Let  me  see  how 
he  put  it?  The  fool  goes  out  and  dies  for  an  opinion; 
the  rogue  makes  a  living  out  of  it.  The  philosopher 
ponders  the  mighty  problem  but  seldom  speaks,  for 
he  knows  that  Wisdom  crieth  aloud  in  the  street,  and 
there  is  no  one  to  listen  or  hearken." 

"I  see.  Well,  yes,  that  was  slightly  insane  in  such 
company.     Anything  worse?" 

"No!  But  when  he  came  back  from  the  door,  wilted, 
as  you  would  say,  he  said  to  me,  'No  one  is  a  real 
Celt,  who  would  not  enjoy  hiding  under  a  stone  wall 
on  the  summit  of  some  Irish  mountain,  and  watching 
for  a  whole  day  the  rain  blown  up  in  sheets  across  the 
heather  by  the  wild  wind  from  the  west!" 

"Yes!  That's  very  bad,"  said  Myles,  rising  from 
table.  "I  must  see  Halpin.  He'll  lose  his  school,  if 
he  goes  on  like  that." 

He  called  on  the  schoolmaster  a  few  evenings  later 
on.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Halpin.  Here, 
too,  the  very  nice  class-distinctions  obtained;  and,  alas! 
that  it  should  be  said,  a  schoolmaster  was  almost  as 
much  beneath  a  merchant,  as  a  shopkeeper  was  be- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  65 

neath  a  solicitor.  And  ]\Iyles  Cogan,  democrat  and 
revolutionary  as  he  was,  had  not  yet  soared  quite 
above  these  social  distinctions.  But,  here  there  was  a 
spirit  of  camaraderie  that  madeexclusiveness  impossible; 
and  besides,  if  Halpin's  visit  to  Millbank  was  a  visit 
of  ceremony,  this  visit  of  Myles  to  the  lonely  teacher 
was  one  of  business.  In  truth,  he  was  gravely  dis- 
quieted; and,  though  a  thought  of  retreat  never  entered 
his  mind,  he  needed  a  tonic  to  keep  that  mind  steady 
toward*  its  great  end. 

Halpin,  as  usual,  was  reading  and  smoking.  He 
put  the  book  aside,  and  motioned  his  friend  to  a  seat. 

"I  missed  you  the  other  night!"  said  INIyles,  simply. 

"Yes!  But  it  was  of  no  consequence.  I  believe  I 
was  missed  also  in  another  place!" 

"So  Colonel  Costelloe  told  me.  He  called  late  that 
night;  and  was  in  a  fierce  temper.  He  is  about  to  warn 
the  Yanks  that  the  game  is  up  here.  He  said  we  were 
undrilled,  unarmed,  undisciplined.  He  called  us  'the 
ineffectual  Celt.'" 

"Of  course.  But  you  didn't  expect  help  from  these 
gentlemen,  did  you?" 

"Why,  yes!  The  main  hope  of  the  movement  was 
in  the  military  knowledge  and  experience  of  these 
Irish-American  officers." 

"You  are  right.  It  was.  But  that  is  no  longer  the 
case.  Since  the  escape  of  Stephens,  and  the  deposi- 
tion of  Colonel  John  O'Mahony,  the  Yanks  have 
thrown  us  up!     We  have  to  rely  upon  ourselves." 

Myles  Cogan  looked  blank.  He  had  not  realised 
this. 

"In  fact,"  continued  Halpin,  "from  the  very  begin- 
ning it  was  evident  that  this  would  be  the  case.  No 
nation  is  fit  for  independence  that  is  not  able  to  win  it." 


66  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Then,  I  must  say,  it  is  all  up  with  us.  You  said 
as  much  the  last  evening  we  met  in  the  livery  stables, 
when  these  poor  fellows  were  going  on  about  croppy- 
pikes  and  dragoons." 

"Yes!  I  said  all  that  deliberately;  and  it  was  true. 
There  is  nothing  gained  by  telling  lies  to  ourselves." 

"But,  then,  in  God's  name,  Halpin,  if  we  are  so 
helpless,  so  disorganised,  so  ineffectual,  are  we  justi- 
fied in  exposing  all  these  poor  devils  to  certain  death, 
or  life-long  imprisonment?" 

Halpin  was  silent.  Myles  grew  a  little  angry.  A 
horrible  suspicion  struck  him. 

"Halpin,"  he  said,  "you  don't  misunderstand  me?" 

Halpin  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  grasped  his 
friend's  firmly. 

"No!"  he  said.  "I  know  you  too  well.  But,  if 
I  were  certain  that  our  movement  was  to  be  as  futile 
and  profitless  as  that  smoke,  I  would  still  say, 
Go  on!" 

"And  sacrifice  everything?" 

"Sacrifice  many  things  to  save  the  nation.  The 
country  has  become  plethoric  and  therefore  indifferent 
to  everything  but  bread  and  cheese.  It  needs  blood- 
letting a  little.  The  country  is  sinking  into  the  sleep 
of  death;  and  nothing  can  awake  it  but  the  crack  of 
the  rifle." 

"And  we  have  to  suffer,  and  teach!" 

"We  may  also  have  to  teach  from  our  graves!" 

Myles  Cogan  needed  all  his  strength  of  character 
to  keep  back  his  tears.  Instead  of  the  "pomp  and 
circumstance  of  war,"  the  panoply  and  the  glory  and 
the  pageantry  —  the  ringing  of  bridles,  the  clash  of 
sabres,  the  crack  of  musketry,  he  saw  only  the  bleeding 
figures  of  a  few  mutilated  peasants,  and  a  long  row  of 


A  STORY  OF  '67  67 

gray-clad  convicts  with  the  hideous  arrow  stamped 
all  over  them. 

"You  depress  me,  Halpin,"  he  said.  "If  all  our 
work  is  to  end  in  a  fiasco  like  Ballingarry,  the  sooner 
we  quit  it  the  better." 

"If  you  mean,  that  ours  will  be  no  Waterloo  or 
Thermopylae,  your  conjecture  is  right.  We  shall  rise 
in  rebellion.  We  shall  take  out  a  few  hundred  poor 
fellows  who  couldn't  hit  a  haystack  with  their  rifles; 
and  a  few  hundred  more,  who  are  armed  with  pikes 
and  blackthorns.  At  the  first  volley  from  five  or  six 
policemen,  they  will  run  and  disperse,  leaving  half-a- 
dozen  dead.  Perhaps,  in  Dublin  or  Wicklow  or  Wex- 
ford, they  will  fling  up  barricades,  and  probably  shoot 
a  soldier  or  two;  and  then  get  blown  to  atoms  by  one 
or  two  well-directed  shells.  And  the  insurrection  is 
quenched.  For  six  months  after,  Crown-Prosecutors 
will  be  earning  fat  fees  at  Special  Commissions;  and 
a  score  or  two  brave  men  will  be  sent  to  join  Kickham 
and  O'Leary  over  there  in  Portland  or  Dartmoor." 

"By  Heavens,  Halpin,  if  you  are  right  and  that  is 
all,  we  are  nothing  short  of  criminals  to  drag  brave,  if 
ignorant,  poor  fellows  into  such  a  mess." 

"But  it  is  not  all!"  said  Halpin  stoically.  Then  a 
strange  light  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  You  and  I  will  be  shot.  Our  bodies  will  lie  stretched 
out  on  the  Irish  heather;  our  blood  will  have  soaked 
back  into  our  mother's  breast.  But,  the  very  wretches 
that  handled  Holloway's  bribes  last  week  and  satu- 
rated themselves  with  filthy  liquor',  will  take  up  our 
lacerated  bodies,  and  weep  over  them,  and  carry  them 
down  with  every  honour  to  our  graves;  and  the  women, 
who  shouted  aloud,  or  waved  their  handkerchiefs 
yesterday,  will  snip  away  bits  of  cloth  from  our  tat- 


68  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

tered  uniforms,  and  keep  them  as  relics  for  their  chil- 
dren. And,  in  after  years,  Irishmen  will  come  from 
over  the  seas,  and  find  out  where  Cogan  and  where 
Halpin  fell,  and  carry  away  with  them  to  Mexico  or 
Australia  a  bit  of  the  heather  which  our  dead  bodies 
pressed;  and  the  political  degradation  of  the  people 
which  we  shall  have  preached  with  our  gaping  wounds 
will  shame  the  nation  into  at  least  a  paroxysm  of 
patriotism  once  again!" 

"That  means,"  said  Myles  Cogan  after  a  long  pause, 
"that  we,  Fenians,  are  not  soldiers,  but  preachers?" 

"Preachers,  prophets,  and  martyrs!"  said  his  friend. 
"You  have  had  an  example  here  of  how  low  the  nation 
has  sunk.  Do  you  think  your  life  or  mine  too  great 
a  price  to  elevate  and  save  them?" 

"You  told  my  sister,  Agnes,  so  she  informed  me; 
that  in  politics,  the  fools  go  out  and  die!"  said  Myles, 
smiling  at  the  absurdity. 

"Of  course,  it  is  the  fools  that  do  all  the  world's  great 
work.     Then,  the  world  calls  them  heroes." 

"And  you  are  sanguine,  that  if  we  die,  a  new  spirit 
will  come  into  the  country?" 

"Undoubtedly.  But,  if  no  blood  is  shed,  the  coun- 
try will  rot  away,  until  it  becomes  a  very  Job  upon  his 
dunghill." 

"Yes!"  said  Myles,  musingly.  "We  are  sunk  very 
low  just  now." 

"Yet,  the  vital  spark  is  never  wholly  dead.  Did 
you  hear  what  happened  at  Costelloe's  visit  the  other 
night?" 

"About  these  boys?     Yes,  he  told  me!" 

"It  was  no  farce.  The  fellow  frightened  the  men 
first  by  his  hectoring  and  blasphemy.  They  did  not 
know  what  these  furious  fellows,  with  all  their  notions 


A  STORY  OF  '67  69 

of  military  discipline,  might  do.  The  little  chap 
thought  he  was  to  die!" 

"And  never  winked?" 

"He  closed  his  eyes,  and  waited  for  the  bullet  to 
crack  through  his  brain.  Yes!  the  vital  spark  never 
wholly  dies!" 


XI 


The  conversation  gave  Myles  Cogan  food  for 
thought.  It  raised  the  question  to  a  higher  plane. 
It  is  no  longer  the  political  independence  of  Ireland 
that  has  to  be  sought;  but  the  very  salvation  of  the 
people.  And  this  can  only  be  effected  by  the  shedding 
of  blood.  What  a  light  it  threw  on  O'Connell's  famous 
words!  How  it  justified  Mitchell!  How  it  sanctioned 
and  adopted  Meagher's  Apologue  to  the  Sword!  Yes! 
all  the  eloquence  of  Grattan,  all  the  philosophy  of 
Burke,  all  the  fire  of  Shiel,  all  the  splendour  of  Plunkett, 
cannot  lift  this  generation  from  the  slough  into  which 
it  has  fallen.     It  needs  the  shedding  of  blood! 

He  felt  that  it  would  be  madness  to  propound  such 
a  fantastic  theory  to  the  rank  and  file  of  the  Fenians. 
They  couldn't  understand  it.  They  were  enrolled 
and  sworn  to  create  an  Irish  Republic;  that  was  their 
aim.  Anything  so  transcendental  as  Halpin's  theory 
would  be  scouted  by  them  as  insanity,  or  treason. 
Yes!     If  Myles  Cogan  said  to  them: 

"There  is  no  hope;  not  the  ghost  of  a  chance  that 
we  shall  succeed.  That  is  a  dream  of  madness.  But 
a  few  of  us  must  die,  —  it  may  be  ten,  it  may  be  a 
hundred,  it  may  be  a  thousand,  in  order  that  the  mob 
should  no  longer  shout  after  Castle  nominees,  or  get 
drunk,  or  otherwise  disrespect  themselves,"  the  proba- 
bility is  that  they  would  depose  him,  and  shoot  him 
as  a  traitor. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  71 

Yes!  He  would  keep  the  sublime  idea  locked  up 
in  his  own  mind,  and  exchange  it  only  with  Halpin. 

But  it  was  quite  true,  as  he  conjectured,  that  other 
thoughts  were  agitating  the  minds  of  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  Fenians,  and  just  then,  and  still  more,  later  on, 
stinging  them  to  madness.  All  this  delay,  this  post- 
ponement of  the  signal  of  revolution  from  month  to 
month,  was  becoming  intolerable.  When  would  the 
watch-fires  be  lighted,  the  heather  set  on  fire?  They 
were  tired  of  all  this  drilling  and  this  secrecy.  Like 
true  impatient  Celts,  they  revolted  at  the  idea  of 
caution  or  preparation.  They  wanted  to  be  led  out 
into  the  mountains  and  the  hillsides  and  let  them  see 
what  they  could  do.  Poor  fellows!  Whatever  he 
thought  of  the  madness,  the  sheer  insanity  of  their 
ideas  of  wresting  Ireland  from  England,  one  thing  at 
least  is  certain,  that  not  a  man  of  them  had  an  idea 
of  self  before  him;  not  a  man,  who  was  not  prepared 
to  yield  up  his  life  gladly  for  the  "ould  dart." 

As  the  winter  of  1866  stole  in,  the  impatience  of 
the  rebels  became  too  persistent  to  be  ignored;  and 
word  went  round  from  the  Dublin  Centres  that  '67 
should  not  dawn  before  one  strong  blow  had  been 
struck  for  Ireland.  The  nation  waited  on  the  tiptoe 
of  expectation;  because  there  was  no  secrecy  about 
the  doings  of  the  Brotherhood.  Everyone  knew  that 
a  revblution  was  in  progress;  and  imagination  filled 
in  the  picture.  It  was  generally  expected  that  Christ- 
mas would  see  the  whole  island  in  the  agonies  of  a  civil 
war. 

Meanwhile,  the  government  was  watching  the  whole 
affair  quietly,  thoroughlj^  cognisant  of  every  step  taken 
by  the  revolutionaries;  yet  eager  to  wait  until  the 
whole  thing  should  ripen  into  action,  and  be  crushed 


72  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

in  such  a  manner  that  it  should  never  be  heard  of  again. 
Occasionally,  some  Irish-American  oflScer  was  arrested 
at  Queenstown,  and  quietly  deported  back  to  the 
States;  and  troops  were  silently  sent  over  from  England, 
until  quite  an  army  was  dispersed  through  the  barracks 
and  cantonments  of  Ireland. 

To  all  outer  appearances,  Myles  Cogan  was  pursuing 
a  quiet  business  career.  After  his  father's  affairs  had 
been  finally  arranged,  he  threw  himself  into  the  milling 
and  baking  and  wool-business  as  if  he  had  no  object 
in  life  but  to  make  money,  and  settle  down  as  a  re- 
spectable citizen,  whose  highest  ambition  was  to  be  a 
town  councillor  or  a  Poor  Law  guardian.  As  he  went 
around  in  his  white  miller's  coat  and  hat,  rushing 
hither  and  thither,  meeting  commercial  travellers, 
journeying  to  Dublin  or  some  great  wheat  centre, 
observers  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  he  was  the 
Arch-Revolutionist  in  his  neighbourhood;  and  they 
would  have  found  it  still  more  difficult  to  believe  that 
this  brave,  strong  young  man,  who  had  such  a  mag- 
nificent career  before  him,  had  yet  in  his  inner  con- 
sciousness no  prospect  but  that  of  being  shot  down 
near  some  hill  or  valley  before  many  weeks  were  over. 
Not  that  it  troubled  him  much.  His  mind  was  made 
up.  It  was  his  Fate,  and  he  determined  to  meet  it 
bravely. 

At  each  meeting  during  that  winter,  the  men  were 
becoming  painfully  demonstrative.  The  delay  was 
playing  on  nerves  highly  strung  and  irritable.  They 
were  beginning  to  feel  that  there  was  treason  lurking 
somewhere;  that  the  old,  dark  spectre  of  treachery 
was  lowering  above  them  again.  Several  times  they 
challenged  Myles;  and  he  had  to  give  an  evasive 
answer. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  73 

Then  one  evening  just  before  Christmas,  he  read  for 
them  a  certain  document  he  had  received  from  Dublin, 
deposing  him  from  the  oflfice  of  Head  Centre,  but  al- 
lowing him  to  retain  the  name  of  Captain.  There 
was  a  time  when  such  a  degradation  would  have 
lashed  him  into  fury.  But,  now  that  the  object  of 
his  life  was  changed,  he  took  it  calmly. 

Not  so  the  men.  They  saw  in  a  moment  that  it  was 
Costelloe's  work;  and  their  own  nerves  were  smarting 
under  the  castigation  he  had  given  them. 

"Damn  them!"  said  Murty  Linehan,  "they  thinks 
we  are  a  parcel  of  children.  There  they  are,  codraulin' 
up  there  in  Dublin;  and  pocketing  the  American  dol- 
lars; and  here  are  we,  drilling  and  marchin'  from 
mornin'  till  night,  until  we  haven't  shoe-leather  to 
our  feet.  Write  back,  and  tell  'em,  Captain,  that  we 
refuse  to  obey  a  pack  of  spalpeens  like  them." 

"If  you  had  taken  my  advice,  Murty,"  said  a 
swarthy  blacksmith,  "and  rowled  that  fellow,  Cos- 
telloe,  in  the  furze,  he'd  have  stopped  his  commanding, 
and  gone  home  to  scratch  himself." 

"That  won't  do,  men,"  said  Myles.  "We  are  bound 
by  our  oaths;  and  we  have  to  obey  the  commands 
of  our  superiors.  I  suppose  they  mean  something 
now!" 

"And  who's  to  be  our  Head  Centre,  now?"  they 
asked. 

"That  I  don't  know!"  said  Myles.  "They  have  not 
informed  me." 

Halpin  was  sitting  back,  silent  as  usual.  He  now 
came  forward,  and  took  a  paper  from  his  breast-pocket, 
and  handed  it  to  Myles. 

"That  came  this  afternoon,"  he  said.  "I  am  quite 
at  a  loss  to  understand  it." 


74  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Myles  glanced  over  the  paper;  and  a  deep  frown 
gathered  on  his  forehead.  He  looked  at  Halpin  search- 
ingly  for  a  moment.  Then  he  read  the  document, 
which  appointed  Captain  James  Halpin  Head  Centre 
for  that  district  with  plenary  powers;  giving  him  juris- 
diction over  a  large  area  extending  from  river  to  river, 
and  from  mountain  to  mountain  in  the  Midlands. 

There  was  a  laugh;  then  a  growl;  then  a  strong 
murmur  of  dissent  amongst  the  men.  But  Myles 
folded  the  paper,  and  handed  it  back  to  Halpin, 
saying: 

''You  see,  comrades,  they  mean  business  now.  Get 
your  knapsacks  in  order;  for  you'll  be  under  marching- 
orders  soon!" 

He  left  abruptly  without  another  word;  and  Halpin 
coolly  stepped  into  his  place,  and  issued  orders  in  a 
quiet,  firm  tone.  They  were  too  much  surprised  to 
resent  it.  They  didn't  know  what  to  think.  Some 
said  that  Halpin  had  met  Costelloe,  and  arranged 
for  the  deposition  of  Myles.  Some  remembered  that 
Costelloe  was  particularly  abusive  of  Halpin.  Some 
thought  that  Myles  had  been  getting  lukewarm  in  the 
cause,  and  that  this  was  known  to  the  Executive.  But 
over  all  the  affair  loomed  the  dark  cloud  of  suspicion 
that  haunts  every  secret  attempt  at  revolution.  There 
was  treason  somewhere  and  backsliding;  but  where? 


XII 


Myles  Cogan  was  on  trial  elsewhere  the  following 
night.  In  the  comfortable  drawing-room  of  Mrs. 
Edward  Carleton  the  blinds  and  curtains  were  drawn; 
the  fire  burned  merrily;  Mrs.  Carleton  sat  in  an  easy 
chair,  reading  beneath  the  gas-lamp;  Mary  Carleton 
was  running  her  fingers  along  her  piano,  rather  through 
habit  than  from  any  love  of  the  occupation. 

Just  as  the  clock  struck  ten,  Edward  Carleton  and 
a  younger  gentleman  entered  the  drawing-room;  and 
sent  a  pleasant  odour  of  cigars  into  the  air. 

"Order  tea,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Carleton,  looking 
up  from  her  book,  and  pushing  forward  an  armchair. 

Edward  Carleton  looked  serious,  too  serious  for  a 
man  who  had  dined  well. 

"Rendall  tells  me,"  he  said,  alluding  to  his  guest, 
"that  there  is  danger,  great  danger  in  the  near  future." 

"Danger  of  a  rising?  Those  wretched  Fenians?" 
said  Mrs.  Carleton,  looking  up. 

"Yes!  The  Government  are  now  thoroughly 
alarmed.  They  were  a  little  supine  all  along;  but 
information  has  now  reached  them  that  the  matter 
may  be  very  serious.     Is  that  so,  Rendall?" 

"Quite  so!"  said  District  Inspector  Rendall.  "Of 
course  these  poor  fools  have  played  into  our  hands 
all  along.  We  know  every  one  of  them,  and  every 
movement  of  theirs.  And  all  along  they  seemed 
beneath  our  contempt.     But,  things  are  coming  to  a 


76  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

crisis  now;  and  we  are  under  notice  to  expect  an 
outbreak!" 

"That  means  barricades,  and  firing,  and  all  that?" 
said  Mrs.  Carleton,  thinking  of  her  window  curtains. 

"Yes!  But  not  much,  I  think.  These  fellows  are 
untrained.  Some  of  them  have  never  handled  a  gun. 
They'll  have  pikes  and  pitchforks,  and  one  or  two  old 
muzzle-loaders.  But  at  the  very  first  volley,  they'll 
run!" 

"But,  in  country  places,  Rendall,  they  may  do 
harm.  The  Lingens  and  the  Staffords  around  here 
have  been  consulting  me  about  sending  in  their  plate 
to  the  bank;   and  I  have  advised  them  to  do  so." 

"And  quite  right.  These  scoundrels  will  probably 
raid  a  few  mansions  here  and  there,  where  the  police 
can't  get  at  them.  Of  course,  it  is  just  there  the  mis- 
chief will  be  done,  till  our  troops  come  up  with  them, 
and  shoot  or  hang  them." 

"It  is  strange  that  the  priests  can't  stop  all  this," 
said  Mrs.  Carleton,  peevishly.  She  was  one  of  those 
happy  Catholics  who  would  like  to  throw  every  re- 
sponsibility on  the  shoulders  of  the  priests. 

Rendall  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  an  official 
and  did  not  like  to  touch  so  delicate  a  subject. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Edward  Carleton,  "there  was 
the  grand  mistake  made  by  our  governments  from 
time  to  time,  not  to  have  captured  the  priests  by  pay- 
ing them.  They'd  have  a  lot  of  men  with  much 
influence  with  them.  Now,  they  have  flung  them  on 
the  people.  We're  taxed  beyond  endurance  by  them; 
and  they  are  muzzled  by  the  populace." 

There  was  some  confusion  here;  but  Edward  Carle- 
ton was  not  too  choice  in  his  language,  especially 
when  he  was  under  emotion. 


A  STORY  OF  'G7  77 

"They  bark  a  little  through  the  muzzle,  Papa,"  said 
Mary  Carleton,  breaking  silence.  "At  least,  I  have 
heard  some  pretty  strong  language  from  the  altar." 

"But  they  ought  to  condemn  these  scoundrels,  attack 
them,  hold  them  up  to  public  reprobation,  annihilate 
them,"  said  Edward  Carleton.  He  brought  down  a 
heavy  book  on  the  table  as  he  spoke. 

"For  goodness'  sake.  Papa,  take  care,"  said  his 
daughter.  "These  are  our  best  set.  If  you  broke 
one  of  these  cups,  we  could  never  replace  it." 

"I  say  these  gentlemen,  whom  we,  respectable 
citizens,  are  maintaining  in  luxury  (I  pay  them  two 
pounds  a  year),  should  come  out,  and  denounce  these 
flagitious  ruffians  and  midnight  marauders;  I  say 
they  are  guilty  of  dereliction  of  duty  in  not  bringing 
public  opinion  to  bear  on  these  assassins  and  cut- 
throats, and  dragging  them  out  of  their  retreats  to 
hold  them  up  —  to  hold  them  up  —  to  hold  them 
up—" 

"Perhaps,  they  wouldn't  be  strong  enough.  Papa, 
to  hold  them  up,"  said  his  dutiful  daughter;  "Father 
James  doesn't  look  too  robust." 

Edward  Carleton  glared  at  his  daughter  for  a 
moment,  but  he  thought  there  was  no  use  in  entering 
into  a  conflict  there. 

"Of  course,  these  Fenian  people  are  the  outcasts, 
what  may  be  called  the  riff-raff  of  the  population?" 
said  Mrs.  Carleton,  addressing  the  District-Inspector. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes!"  he  said,  "the  very  lowest  type. 
Labourers  and  artisans,  and  masons,  and  shoemakers. 
But  I  think  the  tailors  are  the  worst!" 

"How  strange!"  said  Mrs.  Carleton,  unloosing  some 
threads,  "one  would  suppose  that  it  was  a  peaceful 
profession  enough!" 


78  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"So  it  is!  so  it  is!"  said  Kendall,  "in  fact  we  can't 
do  without  them  — " 

Miss  Carleton  laughed  rather  impolitely. 

"But  you  see,  these  fellows,  it  appears,  sit  cross- 
legged,  five  or  six  on  a  huge  board;  and  of  course, 
they  must  talk;  and  what  they  talk  about  is  gen- 
erally high  treason." 

"Ah!"  said  Mary  Carleton,  "that  is  what  is  meant 
by  cooking  a  tailor's  goose!" 

The  District-Inspector  laughed;  but  he  somewhat 
felt  that  this  demure  young  lady  was  poking  fun  at 
him. 

"Well,  that's  the  class  they  are,"  he  said,  "of  course, 
their  leaders,  or  Centres,  as  they're  called,  are  a  little 
better,  I  mean,  in  better  positions,  although  as  a  rule 
they're  more  atrocious  scoundrels  than  the  rank  and 
file!" 

"My  gracious!  Mr.  Kendall,"  said  Mary  Carleton, 
"but  surely  they  haven't  done  anything  so  bad 
yet!" 

"No,  of  course,  they  daren't.  But,  wait  till  the 
rising  takes  place;  and  then  you'll  see  what  irre- 
sponsible and  truculent  savages  can  do!" 

"Can  you  tell  me  positively,  Mr.  Kendall,"  said 
Edward  Carleton,  toying  with  his  teaspoon,  "I  hope 
I'm  not  trespassing  on  professional  secrets,  whether 
a  young  client  of  mine,  named  Cogan,  is  involved?" 

"He  is,  or  rather  was.  Head  Centre  here,"  said  the 
Inspector.  "We  know  all  about  the  fellow,  —  and 
a  dangerous  customer  he  is;  but,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  we  have  information  that  he  has  been  deposed. 
We  haven't  got  at  the  root  of  the  matter  yet!" 

"I'm  sorry  for  him!"  quoth  the  attorney.  "His 
father,  old  Dan  Cogan,  was  a  decent  enough  sort  of 


A  STORY  OF  '67  79 

fellow,  a  little  vulgar,  fond  of  rattling  silver  in  his 
trousers'  pockets,  and  saying  Sir!  every  second.  But, 
he  was  a  good  business  man;  and  he  left  a  pretty 
pile.  You're  aware,  of  course,  that  it  was  his  son 
hung  out  that  black  flag  — " 

"Papa!"  said  Mary  Carleton. 

"Well,  my  dear?  There's  not  a  doubt  about  the 
matter." 

"There's  a  certainty,"  said  Mary  Carleton,  grow- 
ing a  little  white  under  the  eyes,  "that  Myles  Cogan 
never  — " 

"Mary!"  cried  her  mother,  warningly,  "how  can  you 
speak  of  that  young  man  so  familiarl3^  Surely,  you 
don't  know  people  of  that  type?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Carleton,  recovering  her  self- 
possession,  "I  slipped  into  the  habit  from  hearing 
everyone  calling  him  Myles  Cogan.  He  appears  to 
be  a  great  favourite!" 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Kendall.  "There  lies  the  danger. 
These  half-educated  fellows,  who  attain  popularity, 
assume  great  control;  and  they  lead  these  poor  ig- 
norant fellows  to  ruin!" 

"But  you're  speaking,  Mr.  Rendall,  as  if  Mr.  Cogan 
had  already  done  something  terrible.    Has  he?" 

"I  cannot  say  he  has,"  said  the  officer,  "but  just 
listen  to  this!" 

He  fumbled  in  his  breast-pocket,  and  drew  out  a 
notebook.  From  this  he  extracted  a  piece  of  very 
thin  paper,  smoothed  it  out  and  read,  whilst  Mrs. 
Carleton  laid  down  her  work,  the  man  of  law  looked 
at  the  ceiling,  and  Mary  Carleton,  leaning  her  fair 
cheek  on  her  hand,  watched  the  officer  with  intense 
interest: 


80  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Comrades: 

"  The  hour  is  at  hand.  Slowly,  but  surely,  the  fingers 
on  the  dial  are  moving  on  to  the  moment  when  the  nation 
shall  be  bidden,  Arise!  We  have  waited  long,  but  our 
patience  is  about  to  be  rewarded.  For  us,  destiny  is 
waiting  —  with  a  twofold  choice,  the  sight  of  victory,  for 
which  generations  of  our  Countrymen  dreamed  and  died, 
a  victory  that  will  crown  our  poor  dishonoured  motherland 
queen  again,  or  death  so  glorious  that  it  seems  more  to 
be  desired  than  victory,  because  then  we  shall  have  done 
man's  noblest  work,  man's  highest  duty,  of  dying  for  his 
country's  freedom.  Our  hereditary  enemies,  the  Sasse- 
nach and  the  Gall,  call  us  rebels  against  authority,  whereas 
we  are  but  insurgents  against  tyranny,  and  vindicators 
of  our  country's  rights.  And  these  same  tyrants,  whilst 
dangling  before  us  the  rope  of  the  malefactor  for  our 
fidelity  to  the  noblest  instinct  that  God  has  implanted  in 
human  hearts,  are  at  the  moment  stirring  up  revolution 
in  half  the  countries  of  Europe.  They  lay  down  their 
political  principles;  and  then  threaten  to  hang  us  for 
accepting  them.  Here's  what  the  '  Times,'  the  London 
Thunderer,  says: 

"'The  government  should  be  for  the  good  of  the  governed;  and 
whenever  rulers  wilfully  and  persistently  postpone  the  good  of  their 
subjects,  either  to  the  interests  of  foreign  states,  or  to  abstract 
theories  of  religion  or  poUtics,  the  people  have  a  right  to  throw  off 
that  yoke.     This  is  a  principle  that  can  no  longer  be  questioned.' 

and  again: 

'"The  destiny  of  a  nation  ought  to  be  determined  not  by  the 
opinions  of  other  nations,  but  by  the  opinion  of  the  nation  itself.' 

and  again: 

'"England  has  not  scrupled  to  avow  her  opinion  that  the  people 
of  the  Roman  States,  like  every  other  people,  have  a  right  to  choose 


A  STORY  OF   '67  81 

the  form  of  their  own  government,  and  the  persons  in  whose  hands 
that  government  may  be  placed.' 

"  You  see,  then,  that  we  are  but  following  the  counsel  of 
the  '  Times.'  If  the  Italians  are  justified  in  wresting 
the  Imperial  Power  from  the  Pope,  surely  we,  after  our 
six  centuries  of  brutal  misgovernment,  are  justified  in 
casting  off,  once  and  for  ever,  the  hated  yoke  of  England. 

"Therefore,  be  ye  ready!  'Tis  your  motherland  that 
calls.  The  shades  of  our  departed  great  ones  are  watching 
us  from  eternity's  stillness,  —  the  great  spirits  of  Emmet 
and  Lord  Edward,  of  William  Orr  and  Wolfe  Tone,  of 
Smith  O'Brien,  and  Mitchell  and  Meagher  of  the  Sword. 
'Tis  they  that  speak  to  us  from  their  graves  and  tell  us 
that  the  night  is  passing,  the  day  is  dawning,  and  that 
the  eternal  prophecies  are  about  to  be  fulfilled." 

"There's  a  lot  more  of  that  rubbish,"  said  the  officer, 
folding  the  paper,  "but  you  have  seen  enough  to  show 
what  a  firebrand  this  Cogan  is.  He'll  be  the  first  that 
shall  be  laid  by  the  heels." 

"Abominable  treason!"  said  Edward  Carleton. 
"Who'd  ever  think  that  that  young  fellow  would  be 
such  a  bloodthirsty  ruffian?" 

"But  he  is  deposed,  set  aside,  Mr.  Rendall.  Is  that 
so?"  said  Mary  Carleton. 

"Yes!  These  fellows  are  always  fighting  with  one 
another,  and  betraying  each  other.  We  have  not  got 
all  particulars  as  yet,  but  I  think  a  poor,  half-blind 
schoolmaster  will  probably  succeed  him.  You  may 
have  noticed  him,  shuffling  along  the  streets  sometimes, 
his  head  down,  rather  shabbily  dressed,  and  with  a  very 
wicked  little  Irish  terrier  at  his  heels.  These  are  the 
officers  of  the  Irish  Republican  Brotherhood!" 


82  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"But!"  said  Edward  Carleton,  quite  indignant, 
"you  say  he  is  a  National  Teacher.  Why  then  isn't 
the  ruffian  dismissed?  Are  such  scoundrels  as  he  is 
to  be  supported  by  government  funds?" 

"The  Government  are  playing  a  deep  game,"  replied 
Kendall.  "It  would  show  our  hand  to  have  him  dis- 
missed just  now.  When  the  time  is  ripe,  we'll  strike. 
Besides,  to  dismiss  such  a  fellow  now,  would  only  make 
him  a  martyr;  and  they'd  probably  make  up  a  sub- 
scription for  him,  and  give  him  more  than  ever  he  had 
in  his  life." 

"That  is  not  his  own  opinion,"  said  Mary  Carleton, 
quietly.  "I  heard  him  say  that,  in  politics,  it  is  the 
fools  that  go  out  and  get  killed;  the  rogues  turn  their 
politics  into  hard  cash;  the  thinkers  stop  at  home  and 
are  silent." 

"You  —  heard  —  him  —  say?"  cried  Mrs.  Carleton, 
in  an  accent  of  terrified  surprise.  "Pray,  when  and 
where  did  you  meet  such  a  man?  You  have  been 
reading  romances,  and  dreaming.  It  was  Myles  Cogan 
a  while  ago;   and  now  it  is  this  —  this  —  pedagogue!" 

"I  met  him  at  Miss  Cogan's  the  evening  I  called 
there  with  your  permission,  mother,"  she  said.  "I 
exchanged  no  words  with  him;  but  I  don't  think  the 
man  is  a  fool.  Although  perhaps  he  is.  For  is  he  not 
going  to  die  for  an  idea;  and  what  greater  folly  can 
there  be  than  that?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  allowed  you  to  go  to  that  house," 
said  her  mother,  musingly.  "Everything  seems  to  be 
getting  mixed  up  these  times." 

"Well,  young  ladies  must  have  heroes,"  said  Rendall, 
rising  to  go.  "But  I'm  afraid  these  heroes  of  the 
stables  and  the  workshops  will  hardly  succeed  in  over- 
throwing the  British  government  in  this  fair  realm  of 


A  STORY  OF  '67  83 

Ireland,  But  which  is  to  be  the  Cid  Campeador 
remains  to  be  seen  —  the  miller  or  the  schoolmaster." 
Mary  Carleton  had  an  angry  retort  on  her  lips;  but 
she  controlled  herself.  Yet,  to  see  Myles  Cogan 
handcuffed  and  driven  like  a  sheep  to  the  shambles  by 
this  fellow,  would  be  hard.     Would  it  not? 


XIII 

James  Halpin,  now  Head  Centre  of  his  district,  was 
much  perturbed  by  his  promotion.  He  had  not  de- 
sired it,  much  less  sought  it,  and  he  knew  what  a  burden 
it  meant.  But,  he  argued,  matters  should  soon  reach  a 
crisis;  and,  then,  his  responsibility  would  cease.  What 
pained  him  deeply  was  the  implied  censure,  amounting 
almost  to  an  insult,  to  his  friend,  Myles  Cogan,  and 
the  possibility,  but  this  he  considered  remote,  that 
Myles  might  suspect  him  to  be  privy  to  his  own  deposi- 
tion. 

Meanwhile,  he  continued  with  quiet  zeal  his  prop- 
aganda of  nationalist  sentiments  amongst  the  boys 
under  his  charge.  This  was  no  easy  task;  for  the 
principal  of  the  school  was  a  Whig  of  the  bluest  type, 
to  whom  Government  was  everything,  —  Country, 
nothing.  Everything,  except  a  geographical  map, 
that  could  remind  them  that  they  were  Irish  boys, 
was  carefully  excluded  from  the  schoolroom.  Never 
a  word  of  Irish  history  was  taught,  the  names  of  Irish 
heroes  were  unknown.     The  boys  sang: 

"Poor  mortal  man,  thy  lusts  control," 

for  the  teacher  had  a  strong  leaning  towards  Evangeli- 
cal pietism,  or : 

"  Soldiers  in  the  Park," 

which  was  well  and  stirringly  sung  by  the  boys,  and 
gave    great    delight    to    the    inspectors.     But,    such 


A  STORY  OF  '67  85 

revolutionary  hymns,  as  "Let  Erin  remember  the  days 
of  old"  were  sternly  forbidden;  and  a  boy  was  well 
whipped  for  singing  "O'Donnell  Aboo!" 

Nevertheless,  in  some  quiet  way,  little  Irish  symbols 
began  to  show  themselves,  such  as  bunches  of  sham- 
rocks painted  on  copy-books,  sometimes  with  medal- 
lion portraits  of  Emmet  or  Lord  Edward  in  their 
midst;  and  a  popular  London  music-hall  song  of  the 
period  called  the  "Dark  girl  dressed  in  blue,"  was 
promptly  extinguished  on  the  public  streets  by  the 
boys  shouting  in  chorus: 

"Vive-la  the  new  brigade! 
Vive-la  the  old  one,  toof 
Vive-la  the  rose  shall  fade, 
And  the  shamrock  shine  for  ever  new! " 

Philip  Shea,  who  had  looked  into  the  mouth  of 
Colonel  Costelloe's  revolver  unafraid,  had  been  soundly 
whipped  by  his  father  at  home  for  his  promotion  to  a 
lieutenancy  in  the  army  of  the  Irish  Republic,  and 
still  more  soundly  by  the  old  schoolmaster,  who  shivered 
for  his  salary.  He  made  a  speech  on  the  occasion,  in 
which  he  said  that  his  school  was  becoming  a  nest  of 
damnable  young  rebels;  but  that  he.  was  determined 
so  long  as  he  could  wield  a  rattan  to  knock  that  d — 
nonsense  out  of  them,  even  if  he  had  to  draw  blood. 
All  of  which,  of  course,  made  them  more  determined 
rebels  than  ever;  and,  to  do  him  justice,  James  Halpin 
helped  them  cordially.  Once  or  twice,  the  head 
teacher  had  spoken  to  the  manager  to  have  Halpin 
removed,  for  that  he  was  demoralising  the  boys  by 
teaching  them  Fenianism. 

"That  old  fool!"  said  the  manager,  "a  Fenian! 
He  wouldn't  know  at  which  end  to  hold  a  gun!" 


SG  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

A  few  mornings  after  his  deposition,  Myles  Cogan 
was  at  breakfast;  and  after  glancing  over  his  letters, 
he  handed  a  note  to  his  sister,  and  said: 

"Are  you  a  good  hand  at  deciphering,  Agnes?" 

She  took  the  little  note,  and  read: 

^^  Beware!  There's  a  traitor  in  your  camp.  Every 
word  you  say  is  in  the  Police-Ofice  in  twenty-four 
hours!" 

She  frowned  a  little,  pursed  her  lips  a  little,  shrugged 
her  shoulders  a  little,  and  said: 

"The  hand  is  disguised;]  but  it  was  a  woman  who 
wrote  it!" 

"Well-done!  But  that  didn't  strike  me.  Are  you 
sure?" 

"Quite!  There's^ a  peakiness  about  the  letters  that 
you  never  see  in  men's  handwriting." 

"And  you  have  no  suspicion?"^ 

"Of  the  traitor?" 

"No,  no,  no!     I  mean,  my  unknown  correspondent." 

"I  have  a  suspicion  of  both.  But  these  are  only 
girls'  fancies,  you  know!  Look!  Here  are  some 
specimens  of  mortuary  cards  for  poor  papa.  Which 
do  you  like?" 

He  rose  abruptly. 

"They  are  all  the  same!"  he  said.  "I  must  be  off. 
I  have  to  see  that  old  humbug,  Carleton,  about  father's 
affairs.  What  are  we  to  do  about  all  these  letters  of 
condolence?  This  is  the  most  modern  nuisance.  Look 
at  this  resolution  from  the  Board  of  Guardians,  every 
man  of  whom  fought  against  poor  father  during  his 
lifetime." 

"Well,  but  we  must  acknowledge  them,"  said  his 
sister.     "It  is  the  custom,  I  suppose!" 

"Yes!     Everything  hollow,  everything  hypocritical, 


I 


A  STORY  OF  '67  87 

everything  cunning  and  mean  and  Pharisaical!  Oh! 
What  an  age!" 

"And  a  traitor  in  camp!"  said  his  sister.  "Oh, 
Mylie,  will  anything  teach  you  not  to  trust  these  men; 
but  to  break  away  from  them  immediately?  You  see, 
you  know,  you  cannot  depend  on  them!" 

"And,  therefore,  little  sisters  must  bring  their 
superior  wisdom  to  bear  on  political  questions.  Never 
mind!     And  so  it  is  a  girl's  handwriting." 

"I  said  a  'woman's  handwriting,'"  she  retorted,  as 
if  nettled  by  his  flippant  manner. 

"'Tis  all  the  same!"  he  said.  But  he  looked  dis- 
appointed. 

But  Agnes  took  the  note  upstairs;  and  opened  her 
writing  desk,  and  compared,  as  a  professional  expert 
would,  the  mysterious  warning  with  several  letters  that 
lay  nestled  up  in  her  drawers,  and  pursed  her  lips,  and 
shook  her  head,  and  said: 

"I  knew  I  was  right.  It  is  just  the  same.  But  how 
could  she  have  derived  the  information?" 

After  a  long  pause,  she  started,  as  if  a  sudden  reve- 
lation had  been  made  to  her,  pondered  a  little,  wavered 
a  little,  then  promptly  made  up  her  mind;  and  dressing 
hastily,  she  passed  into  the  town,  and,  after  some 
hesitation,  feeling  that  the  hour  was  decidedly  un- 
fashionable for  calling,  she  knocked  at  Edward  Carle- 
ton's,  and  asked  to  see  Miss  Carleton. 

Promptly,  Mary  Carleton  came  downstairs,  just 
wondering  a  little  why  her  old  school-companion  should 
have  called  so  early.  Then,  after  a  few  commonplace 
exchanges,  Agnes  burst  out  crying,  and  said  almost 
hysterically: 

"Oh,  Mary,  Mary,  you  alone  can  save  him!" 


88  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Mary  Carleton  grew  a  little  pale  at  the  suggestion; 
then  looked  annoyed,  then  interested,  as  she  said: 

"Save?    Him?    Save  whom,  and  from  what,  Agnes?" 

"Myles,  my  brother!"  sobbed  Agnes.  "He  showed 
me  this  note  this  morning;  and  I  knew  at  once  it  came 
from  you.  He  doesn't  know  it,  and  I  have  not  told 
him.  But  it  is  all  so  dreadful;  and  coming  so  soon 
after  poor  papa's  death!" 

The  tone  of  the  bereaved  girl  was  so  sad,  so  pathetic, 
that  Mary  Carleton  felt  there  was  no  room  for  dissem- 
bling. 

"Yes!"  she  said,  "I  wrote  it.  I  have  information 
that  matters  are  looking  very  dangerous  for  your 
brother.  But  you  understand  that  I  do  not  wish  for 
the  world  that  anyone,  and  he  above  all,  should  know 
it.     But  you  say  I  can  save  him.     How?" 

The  poor  girl  was  silent  for  a  moment,  fearing  to 
say  something  indelicate.  Then,  summoning  courage, 
she  said: 

"Myles  would  do  anything  for  you,  Mary.  You 
are  the  only  living  person  that  could  influence  him!" 

A  hot  blush  ran  up  across  Miss  Carleton's  features, 
and  flushed  even  her  forehead.  She  seemed  annoyed 
for  a  moment.  Then  a  gladder  feeling  swept  the 
annoyance  aside.  But  she  saw  the  enormous  difficul- 
ties of  the  situation. 

"Let  us  put  our  foolish  heads  together,"  she  said, 
"and  see  what  we  can  do!  You  are  aware  that  your 
brother  is  no  longer  in  command;  I  mean,  Head  Centre 
as  they  call  them?" 

"No!  He  never  told  me.  He  never  tells  me  any- 
thing," said  Agnes.     "He  takes  me  for  a  child!" 

"Well,  he  wants  to  spare  you,  I  suppose.  But  this 
is  a  help.     He  is  no  longer  in  command  of  these  mad 


A  STORY  OF  '67  89 

fellows;  but,  of  course,  he  would  be  too  generous  to 
break  away  on  that  account!" 

"Ah,  of  course.  You  know  him  better  than  I, 
Mary.     No!     We  could  not  play  upon  his  pride  there!" 

"And  the  ban  of  the  Church  has  not  frightened 
him?" 

"It  has.  And  I  know  he  has  sleepless  nights  over 
it,  because  he  cannot  go  to  Confession.  What  made 
it  worse  was,  that  once  when  he  spoke  of  going  to 
Confession  outside  the  diocese,  and  to  some  sympa- 
thetic priest,  Father  James  told  him  that  no  priest 
had  the  power,  even  if  he  had  the  wish,  to  absolve 
him." 

"And  still  he  clings  on?" 

"Yes!  That  dreadful  oath  is  weighing  on  him. 
He  thinks  he  cannot  break  it.  And  —  he  has  such 
a  love  for  Ireland!  It  would  break  your  heart  to 
hear  him  sometimes  —  the  way  he  talks  about  Ire- 
land. You'd  imagine,  for  all  the  world,  he  was  speak- 
ing about  mother." 

"Ah!  that's  bad,"  said  Mary  Carleton.  "An  en- 
thusiast, a  fanatic,  a  would-be-martyr,  —  what  can 
3'ou  do  with  such?" 

"There's  one  power,  and  only  one,  stronger  than 
patriotism,  they  say,"  continued  Agnes. 

"And  that  is?"  said  Mary  Carleton,  heedlessly. 

"The  love  of  a  woman!" 

"And  that  means  your  brother  loves  me;  and  for 
me  would  throw  up  his  allegiance?" 

There  was  a  tone  of  scorn  in  the  words,  that  fright- 
ened Agnes  a  Httle,  but  she  said: 

"I  am  only  conjecturing,  Mary.  Indeed,  I  never 
heard  —  I  have  no  idea  —  that  is,  I  never  heard  Myles 
speak  in  that  manner  of  you.     I  am  only  a  child.     But, 


90  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Mary,  Mary,  I  tell  you  that  you  alone  can  save 
him!" 

"And  if  I  did,"  said  Mary  Carleton,  "that  is, if  Myles 
Cogan  abandoned  for  me  a  cause  deemed  so  sacred  by 
him  that  he  is  prepared  to  give  his  life  for  it,  what 
then?     Could  I  ever  respect  him  again?     Never!" 

She  spoke  so  strongly,  her  whole  face  transfigured, 
and  her  eyes  flashing  with  a  strange  light,  that  Agnes 
Cogan  trembled  before  her,  and  then  rose  up. 

"Oh,  I  should  never  have  come!"  she  said.  "I 
am  so  foolish!  See  now,  you  despise  me;  and  if  Myles 
should  ever  hear  that  I  came  to  you  on  such  an  errand, 
he  could  never  forgive  me!" 

"Never  mind!"  said  Mary  Carleton,  more  calmly. 
"He  can  never  hear  about  it.  But,  keep  your  own 
counsel.     The  times  are  dangerous!     Good-bye!" 

She  kissed  and  parted  with  her  young  friend,  who 
went  away  disconsolate;  and  it  was  only  on  the 
threshold  of  her  own  door  that  she  just  remembered 
that  she  should  have  asked  her  friend: 

"Why  then  did  you  send  Myles  that  note?" 


XIV 

The  spring  of  1867  broke  fair  and  promising,  so  far 
as  Nature  was  concerned.  Men's  minds,  too,  were 
restful  because  the  threatened  outbreak  of  1866  had 
not  taken  place.  Clearly  these  Fenians  were  poor 
players  at  revolution.  They  made  up  in  boasting  what 
they  lacked  in  courage.  District-Inspector  Rendall 
was  scornful. 

"I  told  you,"  he  said  at  the  Carletons,  "what  these 
fellows  were.  They  have  bolted  at  the  last  moment 
—  a  clear  case  of  funk.  But,  they  are  not  going  to 
escape  us.  We  have  evidence  enough  to  hang  half-a- 
dozen  at  least." 

"Was  it  the  constabulary,  or  the  troops,  they  were 
afraid  of?"  asked  Mary  Carleton,  innocently. 

"I  should  say  our  men,"  he  answered.  "You  see 
we'd  have  to  face  the  first  brunt  of  the  conflict.  The 
troops  would  be  in  reserve.  And  I  have  an  idea  that 
the  rebels  would  get  less  quarter  from  us." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  because  our  men  are  Irish;  and  the  troops 
are  mostly  English.  And  you  know  that  no  people 
on  earth  are  so  savage  with  each  other,  either  in  civil  or 
political  life,  as  our  brave  Irish." 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  said  sadly.  "Then  the  whole  thing 
is  blown  over?" 

"  Yes!  It  only  remains  now  to  ferret  out  and  punish 
these  rebels,  who  have  been  keeping  the  whole  coun- 
try in  commotion." 


92  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

James  Halpin,  Head  Centre  of  his  district  in  the 
Midlands,  seemed  to  think  differently. 

"Comrades,"  he  said,  in  the  vast  room-loft  in  the 
lane,  and  addressing  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty 
Fenians,  "the  hour  has  come.  I  have  to  announce  to 
you  that  the  general  rising,  to  which  we  have  been 
anxiously  looking  forward,  is  indeed  to  take  place  on 
the  night  of  the  12th  of  February,  that  is,  on  this  night 
week.  The  time  is  short;  but  the  authorities  have 
expected  that  we  should  all  be  ready.  Make  your 
own  domestic  arrangements,  therefore,  in  your  own 
homes.     The  military  arrangements  are  as  follows: 

'"Section  A.  will  meet  at  ten  'clock  that  night  at  Galwey's 
cross,  crossing  the  fields  and  river  to  avoid  observation.  A  detach- 
ment of  ten  men  will  be  told  off  to  bring  the  rifles  and  bayonets 
from  the  place  of  concealment,  which  will  be  pointed  out  on  the 
map  to  the  officer  in  command. 

Section  B.  is  told  off  to  cut  off  the  railway  communications  with 
the  junction,  by  displacing  the  rails  and  sleepers  at  intervals;  and 
to  cut  the  telegraph  wires  all  around  the  town. 

"'Section  C.  under  command  of  Myles  Cogan,  now  raised  to  the 
rank  of  Colonel,  will  converge  at  the  village  of  Knockbarry,  attack 
the  pohce-barrack  there,  and  seize  the  arms  and  ammunition;  and 
then  proceed  with  all  haste  towards  the  Junction,  where  General 
Massey  will  be  in  command  of  fifteen  hundred  men.' 

"Each  soldier  shall  provision  himself  for  three  days 
with  bread,  potted  meat,  and  cheese.  All  spirituous 
liquors  are  sternly  prohibited.  After  the  first  suc- 
cesses, it  will  be  the  duty  of  the  representatives  of 
the  Republic  to  see  after  the  commissariat  depart- 
ment, and  provision  the  men. 

"I  have  no  more  to  say.  The  time  has  come  to  show 
whether  we  are  men,  or  only  cattle;  and  I  am  sure, 
our  contingent  shall  not  be  the  first  to  waver  or  retreat; 
but  may  be  the  first  to  advance  to  victory;    and  from 


A  STORY  OF  '67  93 

victory  to  victory,  until  we  shall  have  swept  every 
trace  of  foreign  domination  from  our  land." 

There  was  no  applause,  except  when  he  spoke  of 
Myles  Cogan's  promotion,  when  every  man  looked 
towards  the  latter  and  said:  "Good!  That's  right!" 
The  men  silently  dispersed.     One  said: 

"Thank  God  at  last!  We're  going  out  into  the 
open;   instead  of  hiding  like  rats  in  a  stable." 

On  the  11th  of  February,  the  men  were  summoned 
again,  this  time  to  be  told  that  the  rising  was  post- 
poned from  want  of  preparation,  etc. 

"D — n  them!"  said  the  men.  "They're  only 
making  fools  of  us.  Lade  us  out,  Myles  Cogan,  and 
let  us  see  the  beginning  and  end  of  it." 

But  Myles  shook  his  head.  There  was  great  pity 
in  his  heart  for  these  men  who  were  to  be  made  a  holo- 
caust for  their  country. 

But  two  days  later,  like  a  thunderclap  came  the 
intelligence  that  the  whole  of  Kerry  was  up  in  revolt, 
that  the  hills  were  swarming  with  armed  men,  that 
already  certain  skirmishes  had  taken  place  in  which 
the  rebels  were  victors  —  in  fact,  that  the  gallant 
little  kingdom  had  flung  down  the  gauntlet  at  the  feet 
of  the  British  Empire,  and,  alone  and  unaided,  was 
about  to  challenge  the  omnipotence  of  England.  Not 
one  of  the  circumstances  of  a  revolution  was  wanting. 
Midnight  forays  on  barracks,  much  parleying  and 
diplomacy;  a  few  guns  seized;  county  families  flee- 
ing from  their  mansions  into  the  towns  and  cities,  and 
carrying  their  plate  under  military  escort  to  the  banks; 
trains  carrying  troops  and  guns,  rushing  through  rail- 
way stations  heavily  guarded;  officers  rushing  here 
and  there,  not  knowing  what  to  do  in  such  guerrilla 
warfare;    and  then  —  the  collapse.     Kerry  finds  there 


94  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

is  no  national,  nor  even  a  provincial,  rising.  The  con- 
termand  had  come  too  late.  The  guerrilleros  disperse 
and  hide  themselves.  District-Inspectors  become  sud- 
denly valiant;  and  take  detachments  of  men  to  sweep 
the  mountains  and  scour  the  valleys,  and  hang  all 
these  rascally  rebels  as  high  as  Haman.  After  a  day 
or  two,  the  troops  disperse;  and  the  county  gentlemen 
come  out  from  the  hotels  where  they  were  hiding,  and, 
in  lieu  of  the  fox-hunting  of  which  they  have  been  feloni- 
ously deprived,  they  accompany  the  police  and  the 
straggling  soldiery  just  for  the  chance  of  potting  a  rebel. 

District-Inspector  Rendall  had  not  been  ordered 
southwards  as  he  fondly  hoped.  So  at  least  he  said 
in  Edward  Carleton's  drawing-room,  a  few  days  after 
the  abortive  rising  had  been  suppressed. 

"Just  what  I  told  you,"  he  said  to  the  family,  in 
whom  he  was  becoming  much  interested.  "Just  a 
show  of  opposition,  and  these  vermin  run  like  rats. 
They  have  raided  one  or  two  police  barracks  and 
stolen  the  guns.  And  then  —  on  the  first  sign  of  the 
red-coat,  always  the  terror  of  the  Irish  Croppy,  they 
got  away  into  their  holes  in  the  rocks." 

"But  that  does  not  speak  well  for  the  constabulary, 
Mr.  Rendall,"  said  Mary  Carleton,  "that  the  Fenians 
take  away  their  rifles,  and  only  run  when  they  see  a 
red-coat." 

"Ah,  but,  my  dear  Miss  Carleton,  remember,  that 
in  these  isolated  stations  there  are  never  more  than 
five  or  six  men;  and  they  could  not  resist  five  hundred, 
or,  perhaps,  a  thousand  rebels,  even  though  these  had 
but  pikes  or  pitchforks.  But,  when  the  red  is  seen 
gleaming  through  the  trees — " 

"Rut  surely  'tis  at  night  these  raids  take  place?" 
said  Miss  Carleton. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  95 

"Quite  so!  but  the  moon  was  shining  on  the  night 
of  the  12th,  and  13th—" 

"To  be  sure!  And  it  made  the  red  uniforms  more  con- 
spicuous.    To  be  sure!" 

Mr.  Rendall,  a  little  flurried  and  nettled  at  this 
badinage,  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  the  young 
lady  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  and,  placing  her 
finger  lightly  on  his  arm,  said: 

"Mr.  Rendall,  do  me  a  favour!" 

"With  pleasure,"  he  said,  his  face  beaming  under 
the  compliment. 

"You  said  there  would  be  arrests  after  these  foolish 
attempts  at  insurrection?" 

"Undoubtedly.  The  thing  is  now  crushed;  and  we 
have  only  to  punish  the  instigators." 

"You  have  the  power?" 

"Yes,  without  warrant  or  information.  We  can 
arrest  even  suspects." 

"Then  you  would  do  an  excellent  piece  of  work  if 
you  promptly  arrested  the  ringleader  here!" 

"Halpin?     He's  Head  Centre  now?" 

"I  didn't  mean  him.  He  is  only  a  lay-figure — a 
poor,  half-blind  schoolmaster." 

"There's  only  one  other  of  any  importance  —  Cogan! 
Do  you  mean  Cogan?" 

"I  do!" 

He  started  back  in  surprise. 

"You  think  Cogan  should  be  arrested?" 

"Yes,  and  promptly!" 

"Then  it  shall  be  done!"  he  said  gallantly,  raising 
her  proffered  hand  to  his  lips. 

He  went  home,  wondering  at  the  ways  of  women. 

"I  could  swear  she  was  in  love  with  that  fellow!" 
he  said. 


XV 


The  last  day  of  February,  1867,  another  meeting 
of  the  Fenians  was  convened;  and  this  time  the  Head 
Centre  announced  as  a  final  decision  that  on  the  night 
of  March  5th  there  was  to  be  a  general  rising  in  all  the 
counties  of  Munster,  in  Wexford,  Wicklow,  and  Dub- 
lin, and  in  parts  of  Connaught.  There  was  some 
incredulity,  and  not  a  few  sarcastic  observations.  But 
Halpin  was  positive  that  this  time  there  was  to  be  no 
mistake.  The  whole  scheme  had  been  planned  and 
arranged  by  competent  men,  who  had  also  had  the 
benefit  of  the  military  experience  of  some  American 
officers. 

"The  military  programme,"  he  said,  "will  be  the 
same  as  I  announced  at  a  former  meeting." 

He  went  over  all  the  details,  one  by  one,  and  finally 
impressed  on  the  men  the  necessity  of  the  most  absolute 
secrecy,  if  the  government  were  to  be  taken  by  surprise. 

Myles  Cogan,  who,  since  his  deposition,  had  always 
attended  these  meetings  in  silence,  broke  that  silence 
this  evening  and  said: 

"There's  very  little  use  in  that  admonition,  for 
every  word  that  is  spoken  here  is  in  the  hands  of 
Rendall  before  twenty-four  hours." 

There  was  some  commotion,  and  not  a  little  anger 
at  this.  They  knew  that  Myles  spoke  by  the  book, 
and  was  not  likely  to  make  mistakes. 

"Then,  by ,'*  said  Murty  Linehan,  "this  should 


A  STORY  OF  '67  97 

be  looked  into.  Who  is  the  traitor?  I  say  the  doors 
should  be  locked,  and  let  every  man  be  put  upon  his 
oath,  until  we  find  out  the  informer." 

"And  do  you  think,"  said  the  Head  Centre,  calmly, 
"that  the  man  who  has  broken  the  Fenian  oath,  by 
betraying  his  comrades,  would  hesitate  to  perjure 
himself  here  before  us  to  save  his  skin?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  this.  But  Murty  said,  and 
the  remark  met  with  universal  approval: 

"There  should  be  some  manes  of  finding  out  a  thrai- 
tor.     Blood  will  spake!" 

"Only  when  'tis  shed!"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
solemnly,  as  he  looked  towards  Myles. 

"Well,  no  matter,"  said  a  good-humoured  fellow. 
"We'll  all  be  out  this  night  week;  and  there  will  be 
no  more  saycrets  for  police  or  priests,  for,  begor,  I'm 
more  afraid  of  Father  James  than  of  Rendall." 

"He  has  the  bad  tongue  out  an'  out,"  said  a  com- 
rade. "But,  faith,  his  heart  is  in  the  right  place.  Of 
course,  he  has  to  barge  us,  and  denounce  us  as  limbs 
of  the  Divil;  but,  begor,  I'm  thinking  his  own  fingers 
are  itching  for  the  pike." 

"Say  thim  words  agen,  Maisther  Mylie,  that  you 
said  the  priesht  composed,  while  he  was  damning  and 
blashting  us  all." 

And  Myles  said,  but  not  with  the  verve  and  spirit  of 
former  times: 

"About  old  Banba,  and  Dathi?" 

"Yes,  yes;  there's  life  in  'em,  although  a  priesht 
wrote  'em!" 

"'Tis  not  a  time  for  poetry  or  sing-song,"  said 
Myles,  gravely.     "We  have  work  to  do  now!" 

"Yes!  But,  begor,  why  shouldn't  we  be  singing  at 
our  work?     Do,  Master  Mylie!" 


98  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

'"Tis  our  last  meeting,  till  we  meet  on  the  field," 
said  Halpin.     "It  may  help  us  on  a  little.  Colonel!" 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  do!" 

"Do  you  wish  it?" 

"I  do!" 

"'Tis  a  command,"  said  Myles.  "The  words  are 
these: 

"  Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides, 
Under  red  cairns  do  our  heroes  sleep. 
Theirs  is  a  slumber  that  is  long  and  deep! 

**  Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides. 
The  wild  winds  blow,  and  loud  the  raven  croaks, 
And  the  black  Heaven  in  its  anger  cloaks 
Heather  and  gorse;  and  the  slow,  biting  tide 
Of  Time  eats  into  even  the  granite  hide 
Of  rocks  whereon  the  Storm  King  ever  rides, 
Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides! 

"Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides, 

One  ever  watches  leaning  on  his  spear; 

He  cannot  speak  to  mortal  man,  but  bides 

A  time  to  watch  red  wolf  or  fallow  deer 

And  ask  them :  If  for  ancient  Banba's  sake 

The  time  has  come,  and  shall  we  cry,  Awake! 

And  whitherward  the  ghostly  courier  rides? 
i  Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides. 

"  Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides. 
Dark  is  the  night;  but  brilliant  is  one  star,  — 
The  ruddy  planet  beckons  us  to  war, 
Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides! 

"Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides, 
Is  the  day  dawning;  doth  the  morning  break, 
And  the  cry  gather;  Comrades,  awake? 
Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides! 


A  STORY  OF  '67  99 

"Yea!  the  dawn  doth  break;  and  with  a  shiver 
The  warriors  ope  their  eyes,  and  grasp  their  spears, 
'Tis  a  long  sleep  —  this  of  a  thousand  years! 
But  Banba  is  unchanged  in  hill,  and  lake,  and  river! 


"  Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides. 
Old  Dathi's  sword's  unsheathed;  and  the  hght 
Of  shields  ten  thousand  make  the  mountains  bright, 
Comrades,  respond,  whatever  fate  betides! 
Her  Fate  the  eternal  motherland  abides 
Up  there,  up  there,  along  the  hillsides!" 

"The  eternal  motherland!"  said  Halpin.  "Ah,  yes, 
she  is  calling  on  her  children  now  as  for  a  thousand 
years  she  has  called  them  to  rally  to  her  standard;  and 
fight  once  more  the  battles,  in  which  she  has  ever  been 
defeated,  but  never  conquered!  What  a  destiny  is 
ours!  Out  of  millions  she  has  called  on  us  to  rise; 
and  raise  our  hand  once  more  for  her.  She  leaves  to 
others  to  seek  themselves  —  to  drink,  to  take  bribes, 
to  sell  themselves,  body  and  soul,  to  the  enemy!  Us 
she  commands  to  stand  by  her  side,  and  defend  her. 
We  cannot  fail.  Some  of  us  must  fall;  I  shall  be  the 
first!  But,  when  I  fall,  another  worthier  than  I  shall 
take  my  place.  You  know  whom  I  mean.  Him 
follow  to  death  also,  or  victory!" 

They  walked  home  together,  Myles  and  Halpin. 
In  some  strange  way,  the  greatness  of  this  poor, 
uncouth  schoolmaster  was  stirring  Myles'  soul  to  the 
depths.  He  felt  that  strange  shyness  which  comes 
upon  one  who  is  suddenly  confronted  with  royalty. 
Where  he  goes,  he  thought,  I  shall  follow. 

They  stood  together  for  a  moment  at  the  door  of 
Halpin's  humble  residence,  and  exchanged  a  few  busi- 
nesslike words.     They  then  grasped  hands,  —  it  was 


100  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

unusual   with  them,   but  they  felt  the  occasion  was 
solemn,  —  and  separated. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock,  as  usual,  when  Myles 
reached  the  iron  wicket  that  opened  into  the  lawn 
before  his  house.  He  was  surprised  to  see  a  covered 
car  drawn  up  as  if  in  waiting  a  little  further  along  the 
road,  still  more  surprised  when  a  lantern  was  flashed 
in  his  face,  and  Rendall,  surrounded  by  a  body  of 
police,  placed  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  said: 

''I  arrest  you  in  the  Queen's  name!" 

"On  what  charge?"  said  Myles,  eagerly  scanning 
the  windows  of  the  house,  lest  Agnes  should  see  what 
was  happening. 

"On  the  charge  of  belonging  to  a  treasonable  so- 
ciety, uttering  seditious  language,  and  administering 
treasonable  oaths!" 

"On  whose  information  is  the  warrant  issued?" 

"That  cannot  be  divulged  now.  You  will  pardon  the 
rudeness,  Mr.  Cogan;  but  we  have  a  duty  to  perform." 

And  he  ordered  one  of  the  men  to  place  the  hand- 
cuffs on  Myles'  wrists.  Myles  shuddered  and  chafed 
at  the  indignity. 

"'Tis  a  gross  insult,"  he  said.  "You  have  my 
word  of  honour!" 

Rendall  shook  his  head  and  pointed  to  the  car. 
Two  constables  led  Myles  forward,  and  at  half  past 
ten  o'clock  he  was  lodged  in  the  Bridewell. 

As  he  sat  on  the  wretched  boards  that  served  as 
a  prison  bed,  his  first  thought  was  of  his  sister.  He 
imagined  her  waking  up  in  the  morning  and  hearing 
the  news  of  his  arrest.  Then  he  thanked  God  that 
she  had  not  seen  it.  That  clapping  the  handcuffs 
upon  him  would  have  killed  her. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  101 

His  next  thought  was  one  of  pride,  that  the  Govern- 
ment should  have  selected  him  as  the  most  dangerous 
enemy  in  the  place,  for  he  had  ascertained  from  the 
gaoler  that  he  was  the  only  person  arrested  that  night. 
Then,  he  thought,  what  effect  will  it  have  on  the  pro- 
jected rising.  And  he  had  to  admit  that  it  would 
have  none. 

He  was  disturbed  in  his  meditations  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  gaoler's  wife,  who  brought  in  a  copious 
supply  of  sheets  and  blankets  for  the  night.  She  and 
her  husband  were  old  friends  of  the  Cogans. 

"You're  breaking  the  law,  Mrs.  Tobin,"  said  Myles, 
gaily.     'Tm  to  have  a  plank  bed,  after  the  handcuffs." 

"And  sweet  bad  luck  to  the  boccagh  who  put  'em 
on  you,"  she  said.  "If  some  of  the  min  had  their 
way,  it  is  on  himself  they'd  be  putting  'em.  But  the 
time  will  come!  Here,  get  up  out  of  dat,  and  lave  me 
make  a  decent  bed  for  Bride  Cogan's  son.  'Tis  well 
she  disarved  it,  of  me,  and  many  beside  me." 

So  the  good  woman  went  on,  whilst  she  arranged 
sheets  and  blankets  and  pillows  for  the  prisoner. 
They  were  needed.  The  night  was  bitterly  cold;  and 
local  Bridewells  were  not  heated  with  hot-water  pipes 
as  in  the  cities.  But  she  never  ceased  her  outpour 
of  vituperation  and  pity  and  anger,  as  she  patted  the 
sheets,  and  stroked  the  pillows,  and  made  a  decent 
bed  for  her  prisoner. 

"If  Mr.  Kendall  finds  out  all  you  have  done  for  me," 
he  said,  "you  and  Dick  will  be  transported." 

"  Faith,  an'  how'll  he  find  it?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Sure 
you're  not  going  to  tell  him;  an'  if  he  shows  his  ugly 
mug  here  in  the  morning,  he'll  see  nothin'  but  a  plank 
bed.  But  how  did  Miss  Agnes  take  it?"  she  suddenly 
asked. 


102  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"She  knows  nothing  about  it  as  yet,"  he  replied. 
"But  she'll  hear  it  early  enough  tomorrow."  And  the 
tears  started  to  his  eyes. 

"Well,  God  give  her  grace  to  bear  her  trial,"  she 
said,  "me  poor  young  lady.  But,  wisha  now,  Master 
Myles,  why  did  you  mix  yourself  up  with  the  blagards 
of  Fenians?  Sure  the  priests  are  agin  'em;  and  every 
decent  man  in  town  is  agin  'em;  and,  faith,  they're  agin 
themselves,  because  they  say  you  can't  trust  wan 
among  them.  But  I  suppose,"  she  continued,  fearing 
to  pain  his  feelings,  "'tis  the  hot  blood  of  youth. 
Well,  they'll  lave  you  cool  yer  heels  here  for  a  while; 
and  thin,  they'll  lave  you  go;  and  thin,  you'll  be  made 
for  ever." 

He  was  too  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  to  hear 
her.     She  saw  it,  and  recovered  herself. 

"But  here  am  I,  an  ould  angashore,  codraulin'  away; 
and  I  never  axed  you  had  you  a  mouth  on  you.  What 
will  you  have,  Masther  Mylie,  before  you  goes  to  bed? 
It  is  time  enough  to  be  thinkin'  of  yer  breckfus  in  the 
morning." 

"Nothing,  Mrs.  Tobin,  nothing,"  he  said.  "Thank 
you  ever  so  much.  I  had  tea;  and  I  want  nothing 
more.  As  you  say,  we'll  think  of  breakfast,  if  we  live 
till  morning." 

"Wisha,  thin,  a  sup  of  somethin'  hot  wouldn't  do 
you  any  harm  nayther.  And  sure,  Dick  is  takin'  his 
own  night  cap  this  blessed  moment." 

It  would  not  do.  Myles'  staunch  teetotallism  was 
not  to  be  undermined  even  under  such  winning  temp- 
tations. Yet,  when  he  looked  around  the  wretched  cell 
with  its  white,  unplastered  walls,  its  stone  floor,  its 
narrow  window,  he  thought  of  his  own  comfortable 


A  STORY  OF   '67  103 

room  at  home,  —  his  fire,  his  lamp,  his  books,  his  soft, 
comfortable  bed,  and  shuddered. 

She  saw  it;   and  said  coaxingly: 

"Lave  me  bring  you  a  small  sup.  'Twouldn't  hurt 
a  child!" 

But  he  shook  his  head.  She  departed.  He  lay 
down  to  sleep;  but  could  not.  The  suddenness  of  the 
thing  had  unnerved  him. 

There  was  another,  who  had  also  a  sleepless  night. 
She  had  done  a  desperate  thing;  and  yet  she  didn't 
repent  it.  But  it  racked  her  brain,  and  tortured  her 
imagination,  and  drove  all  sleep  away  until  morning. 


XVI 


The  morning  dawned;  and  with  it  the  news  of 
Myles  Cogan's  arrest  startled  the  town.  It  was  bring- 
ing the  revolution  home  to  them;  and  they  accepted 
it  according  to  their  prejudices  or  dispositions.  Some, 
the  staid,  conservative,  moneyed  men,  said:  "Quite 
right!  It  was  time  that  this  young  fool  should  be 
stopped  in  his  mad  career;  quite  true  that  the  insult 
he  offered  to  his  father  and  their  member  should  be 
avenged!"  The  poor  said,  in  accents  of  indignation 
and  grief: 

"May  God  preserve  him  and  every  defender  of  his 
country!" 

The  rank  and  file  of  the  Fenians  were  furious  and 
alarmed  —  furious,  because  they  had  a  great  love  for 
their  young  hero;  alarmed,  because  it  was  clear  the 
government  was  now  on  the  alert,  and  could  not  be 
taken  by  surprise. 

At  Edward  Carleton's  breakfast  table  the  matter 
came'  up  for  discussion. 

"Wonders  will  never  cease,"  said  he,  cutting  his 
toast  into  little  squares.  "That  young  fellow  was  in 
my  office  yesterday;  and  milder-mannered  or  more 
gentlemanly  young  fellow  I  never  spoke  to.  We  went 
through  all  his  affairs  to  take  out  administration;  and 
his  head  is  as  clear  as  a  Q.C.'s.  And  then  was  it  last 
night,  or  the  night  before  Rendall  was  here;  and  he 
never  even  alluded  to  the  matter  — " 


A  STORY  OF  '67  105 

"There  was  a  desperate  struggle,  I'm  told,"  said 
Mrs.  Carleton,  "and  Mr.  Rendall  had  to  handcuff 
him.  I  hope  Mr.  Rendall  wasn't  hurt!  Poor  gentle- 
man! What  they  have  to  face!  What's  the  matter, 
Mary?  You're  touching  nothing;  and  you've  lost 
all  colour!" 

"'Tis  nothing,"  said  Mary,  although  she  felt  very 
faint,  and  dark  lines  beneath  her  eyes  were  evidences  of 
her  night's  unrest.  "'Tis  the  awful  cold.  I  never 
felt  so  cold  as  last  night." 

"So  it  was!  We  must  get  Mary  to  keep  up  the  fire 
in  your  bedroom.  When  it  dies  out  in  the  morning,  the 
temperature  runs  down  very  low.  But,  we  must  send 
up  at  once  and  inquire  after  Mr.  Rendall.  Would 
you  write  a  note,  Mary?" 

"Don't  ask  me,  mother,"  she  said.  "We  can  send 
up  Allen.     I'm  sure  nothing  serious  has  occurred." 

"We  cannot  know.  These  Fenians,  I'm  told,  are 
always  armed.  They  carry  their  guns  and  revolvers 
everywhere  with  them;  and  I  believe  this  young 
Cogan  was  particularly  desperate.  But,  what  a  mercy 
he's  locked  up.  He  cannot  do  any  harm  now!  Is 
there  any  further  news  in  town,  Mary,"  she  said  to  the 
young  housemaid,  who  just  then  had  entered  the  break- 
fast parlour,  "about  the  arrest  of  Cogan?" 

"Oh,  there  is,  Ma'am.  They  say  'twas  awful. 
Myles  Cogan  fought  the  police;  and  only  they  caught 
his  hand  in  time.  Ma'am,  he  was  whipping  out  his 
revolver  to  shoot  them  all  dead.  And  some  of  the 
Fenians,  Ma'am,  were  behind  the  wall;  and  they'd 
have  killed  the  chief  and  all  the  police,  Ma'am,  only 
they  had  Murphy's  covered  car,  and  they  drove 
Myles  Cogan  away.     And  they  are  sayin',  Ma'am  — " 

"There!     I  knew  it  was  serious,"  said  Mrs.  Carle- 


106  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

ton.  "Tell  Allen  at  once,  Mary,  to  go  and  make  the 
most  minute  inquiries,  with  my  compliments,  about 
Mr.  Rendall,  and  to  express  our  hopes  that  he  has 
sustained  no  serious  injury." 

Edward  Carleton  was  looking  towards  his  daughter, 
as  if  the  matter  was  becoming  jocose;  but  that  young 
lady's  thoughts  were  evidently  elsewhere,  because  she 
was  gazing  with  dilated  eyes  through  the  window. 
And  the  housemaid  reported  in  the  kitchen,  that  Miss 
Mary  was  so  troubled  about  the  Chief,  that  she  never 
touched  a  bit  of  breakfast,  and  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  a  ghost.  And  Allen  took  his  orders  meekly 
to  inquire  after  Mr.  Rendall;  but  he  cursed  someone 
hotly  between  his  teeth. 

It  is  probable,  however,  that  amongst  all  those,  who 
were  thunderstruck  by  the  news  of  the  arrest,  Halpin 
felt  the  blow  most  keenly.  His  feelings  towards 
Myles  were  at  once  of  a  protective  nature;  as  of  an 
elder  towards  a  younger  brother;  and  3^et  of  a  reveren- 
tial nature,  as  of  one,  who,  deeming  himself  rather 
commonplace,  looked  up  to  and  revered  a  superior. 
If  he  had  any  hope  of  Ireland,  it  was  through  the 
instrumentality  of  brave  young  souls,  like  Myles  Cogan, 
her  emancipation  was  to  be  effected.  Of  course,  he 
felt  by  some  prophetic  instinct  that  they  would  be 
both  struck  down  in  this  unequal  struggle  with  the 
might  of  England.  Yet,  there  was  a  faint  hope  that 
Myles  would  escape,  and  become  again  an  inspiring 
factor  to  a  new  generation. 

After  school-hours,  during  which  the  boys  watched 
him  with  a  new  interest,  he  tried  to  distract  himself 
with  his  books,  his  fiddle,  and  his  dog.  These  were  his 
never-failing  resources  in  all  periods  of  mental  trouble. 
Today  they  failed  him.     The  history  of  Ireland,  which 


A  STORY  OF  '67  107 

had  always  for  him  a  haunting  and  melancholy 
sweetness,  this  evening  took  on  a  dark  look,  as  of  a  some- 
thing that  had  deepened  from  mere  sadness  into  mourn- 
ing. He  thought  he  saw  black  bands  around  the  margins 
of  the  pages;  and  an  Alas!  at  the  foot  of  every  page, 
as  of  a  story  that  was  marked  everywhere  by  ruin  and 
failure. 

He  took  up  the  old  violin,  and  tried  to  call  forth 
from  its  strings  some  word  of  hope.  No!  It  sounded 
only  like  the  wailing  of  wind  in  the  chimney,  or  up 
along  the  brown  and  barren  mountain-sides,  where 
lost  spirits  dwell.      He  laid  it  down. 

"Come  here,  Bran!" 

Bran  was  the  name  of  Ossian's  mighty  mastiff,  who 
was  to  go  with  the  old  Pagan  bard  into  the  other  world 
whether  of  bliss  or  horror,  and  whose  bones  were  to 
mingle  with  his  master's  in  the  same  grave.  This  Bran 
was  a  tiny,  wiry  little  terrier,  very  vicious  towards 
strangers,  very  loving  of  his  own.  He  jumped  on 
Halpin's  knee,  and  looked  into  Halpin's  face  with 
those  soft  brown  eyes  of  his,  as  if  he  would,  and  even 
could,  penetrate  his  master's  thoughts. 

"Bran,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  slowly,  rubbing  the 
silky  ear  of  the  dog,  "what  a  libel  art  thou  on  thy 
mighty  namesake!  In  what  dread  moment  of  sar- 
casm did  I  plant  that  name  upon  thee!  It  means 
greatness,  little  Bran,  ferocious  strength  and  swiftness 
and  endurance,  readiness  to  tackle  wolf  or  bear,  or  fox, 
readiness  to  die  for  thy  master.  And  such  as  thou  art, 
little  Bran,  compared  with  the  mighty  prototype,  even 
such  are  we!  For  we,  too,  are  degenerate.  All  our 
strength  has  departed,  oozed  away  through  our  palsied 
hmbs  and  brains,  and  left  us  as  helpless  towards  the 
enemy,  as  thou,  little  Bran,  wouldst  be  before  a  raven- 


108  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

ing  wolf.  But,  like  thee,  we  can  at  least  be  faithful  and 
loving.  For  I  do  read  in  thy  brown  eyes,  little  Bran, 
that  thou  lovest  this  poor  schoolmaster,  who  owns 
thee.  Nay,  thou  wouldst  lay  down  thy  little  life  for 
me!     And  what  greater  love  can  be  than  this?" 

He  paused,  and  then  laying  the  dog  gently  back  on 
the  hearth  rug,  he  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  wrote  his 
will.     This  he  folded,  and  put  away  in  a  drawer. 

"It  is  informal,  and  unwitnessed  except  by  God," 
he  said.  "But  who  would  care  to  fight  for  all  this 
rubbish?" 

He  then  put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat,  and,  calling 
Bran  to  follow  him,  he  went  out  into  the  night. 

It  was  dreadfully  cold,  a  sharp  north-easter  blowing 
up  the  street,  drying  up  roads  and  sideways,  and  dry- 
ing up  the  moist  natural  heat  in  the  veins  of  men.  A 
few  groups  of  men,  weatherproof,  were  gathered  around 
street  corners,  discussing  the  one  all-absorbing  topic 
of  Myles  Cogan's  arrest.  They  flung  out  some  dark 
hints  as  the  schoolmaster  passed,  and  he  did  not  heed 
them. 

A  ballad-singer  was  trolling  out  in  wavering  accents 
a  verse  of  John  O'Hagan's  song,  "Dear  Land": 

"  My  father  died  his  home  beside, 

They  seized  and  hanged  him  there, 
His  only  crime  in  evil  time 

Thy  hallowed  green  to  wear; 
Across  the  main  his  brothers  twain 

Were  forced  to  pine  and  rue, 
But  still  they  turned,  with  hearts  that  burned 
In  hopeless  love  to  you,  dear  land, 
In  hopeless  love  to  you!" 

A  policeman  stepped  off  the  sidewalk,  and,  rudely 
hustling  the  ballad-singer,  said: 


A  STORY  OF  '67  109 

"Stop  that  at  wanst,  or  I'll  run  you  in!" 
But  Halpin  went  on,  the  words  ringing  a  mournful 
threnody  in  his  ears: 

"  In  hopeless  love  to  you,  dear  land, 
In  hopeless  love  to  you." 

The  policeman  followed  him  along  the  street;  and 
then  left  him. 

He  crossed  the  bridge  and  stopped.  The  river, 
Myles'  river,  that  he  loved  so  much  in  ebb  and  flood, 
in  tawny  and  irresistible  strength,  or  in  sparkling  and 
singing  gladness,  rolled  by  swollen  and  turbid  in  the 
darkness.  Here  and  there,  leaning  against  the  lime- 
stone parapets,  were  little  groups  of  two  or  three,  dis- 
cussing the  one  subject  of  Myles  Cogan's  arrest. 

Halpin  passed  them  by,  unrecognised  in  the  darkness. 
He  went  down  along  the  sordid  suburb  that  led  towards 
Millbank,  and  paused  for  a  long  time  before  the  house, 
debating  with  himself  whether  he  would  intrude,  and 
how  he  might  be  received,  and  what  he  would  say  if 
Agnes  came  to  him.  At  length,  he  made  up  his  mind, 
opened  the  little  iron  gate,  crossed  the  gravelled  path, 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  There  was  a  light  in  the 
dining-room.  The  little  maid  opened  the  door,  and 
ushered  him  in.  Agnes  Cogan  was  there,  and  the 
priest. 

Halpin  started  back,  but  the  priest  said  encourag- 
ingly: 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Halpin.  I  presume  you  have  come 
to  see  Miss  Cogan  in  her  great  trial." 

The  schoolmaster  sat  down,  bewildered.  He  had 
none  of  the  ease  and  composure  with  which  men  of 
the  world  are  trained  for  such  difficult  situations.  He 
murmured  some  commonplace,  and  was  silent. 


no  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"The  whole  question  now  is,"  said  the  priest,  as  if 
continuing  a  conversation  with  Miss  Cogan,  "to  find  out 
why,  and  on  whose  information,  Myles  has  been  arrested; 
and  then  to  get  him  out  on  bail." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Agnes,  "we  must  get  him 
out  of  that  dreadful  place  at  once.  Think  of  last 
night!  Why,  I  shivered  all  night  in  my  own  room 
with  a  blazing  fire." 

"If  we  could  only  find  out,"  said  the  priest,  "why, 
and  on  whose  informations,  he  has  been  arrested,  it 
would  guide  us.  We  are  groping  in  the  dark;  and,  of 
course,  the  police  won't  help  us." 

"Isn't  there  some  way  of  having  him  brought  before 
a  magistrate  and  put  on  trial,  and  then  let  out  on 
bail?"  said  the  poor  girl. 

"Of  course.  But  that  may  mean  days.  It  may 
mean  a  week  or  a  fortnight,  and  meanwhile  — " 

"Meanwhile,  poor  Myles  will  be  starved  and  frozen 
to  death,"  said  the  weeping  girl.  "Oh,  'tis  too 
dreadful!" 

"It  is  so  strange,"  said  the  priest,  looking  at  the 
silent  schoolmaster,  "that  Myles  alone  should  have 
been  arrested.  The  government  must  have  thought 
him  a  dangerous  adversary." 

"And  he  was,"  said  Halpin,  breaking  silence,  "not 
for  what  he  could  do  against  England,  so  much  as  for 
his  example." 

The  priest  and  the  girl  looked  at  him,  as  if  for 
explanation. 

"Mr.  Cogan  could  do  nothing,"  he  continued, — 
"if  Robert  Emmet  rose  from  the  dead,  he  could  do 
nothing;  but  fail.  But  these  men  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth.  But  for  such  as  they,  this  country  of  ours 
would  be  as  putrid  as  the  Dead  Sea." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  111 

"The  cost  is  too  great!"  said  the  priest.  "The 
salt  is  more  than  the  meat." 

"No!"  said  Halpin,  solemnly.  "What  is  my  life, 
your  life,  Myles  Cogan's  life,  compared  with  even  the 
temporary  redemption  of  the  race?  Nothing.  Myles 
understands.  One  like  him,  even  one  in  each  genera- 
tion, can  save  the  country  from  putrefaction." 

"I'm  sure  he  is  great  enough  to  make  the  sacrifice," 
said  the  priest,  "but  what  of  his  friends?  They,  too, 
must  suffer." 

"And  they  will,  and  gladly,"  said  Halpin,  looking 
at  Agnes,  and  putting  a  strange  emphasis  into  his 
words.     "We  expect  it,  and  we  shall  not  be  deceived." 

The  priest  rose  up,  and  left.  Halpin  lingered  behind*. 
He  stood  opposite  the  girl,  when  she  returned  from 
the  door. 

"I  have  said  too  much?"  he  said,  questioningly  and 
humbly. 

"No!"  she  murmured,  extending  her  hand. 


XVII 

"Really,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Carleton,  a  few  days 
after  the  arrest,  "you  must  see  Dr.  Gibson.  You're 
looking  ghastly,  and  eating  nothing,  and  moping 
around  —  will  you  see  Dr.  Gibson?     He's  very  clever!" 

"I  have  no  need,  mother,"  she  said.  "I  assure  you 
I'm  not  unwell.  There's  nothing  wrong.  It  may  be 
the  cold  weather  — " 

"Well,  then,  can't  you  go  out  and  take  a  long  brisk 
walk,  and  bring  back  some  colour.  It  makes  me  quite 
uneasy  looking  at  you." 

"Yes!  But  where  can  one  go?"  said  the  girl,  pet- 
tishly. "You  see  I  have  no  companions;  and  'tis 
really  tiresome  walking  alone,  and  without  an  object." 

"True,  and  I'm  too  much  rheumatised  to  accom- 
pany you  now." 

Mrs.  Carleton  went  on  with  her  work;  but  medi- 
tated a  good  deal.  She  stopped,  made  a  decision, 
revoked  it,  renewed  it,  and  finally  said: 

"I  don't  like  you  to  associate  with  mere  business 
people,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "but  perhaps  —  the 
circumstances  are  very  peculiar  —  perhaps  you  might 
like  to  call  on  that  Cogan  girl.  I  dare  say  she'll  be 
glad  to  see  you  now;  and  then,  you  needn't  meet  that 
rebellious  young  man." 

"I  didn't  like  to  propose  it,  Mother,"  said  the  young 
girl,  "knowing  it  to  be  against  your  wishes;  but  — 
poor  Agnes  —  two  such  trials  —  coming  in  such  quick 
succession  —  oh!     It  must  be  unbearable!" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  113 

And  to  her  mother's  intense  surprise,  her  proud 
daughter  burst  into  tears. 

"There,  there!"  said  Mrs.  Carleton,  soothingly. 
"Yes,  you're  right.  I  should  have  thought  of  this 
before.  Get  your  hat  and  coat,  and  go  over;  and 
if  you  can  persuade  Miss  Cogan  to  go  out  and  take  a 
long  walk  with  you  —  all  the  better." 

But  when  Mary  did  go  out,  Mrs.  Carleton  fell  into 
a  brown  study,  the  refrain  of  which  was: 

"Well,  I  never!  And  I  thought  I  knew  every  twist 
and  turn  in  her  character!" 

There  was  an  affectionate  greeting  between  the  girls; 
and  Mary  Carleton,  who  had  been  steeling  herself 
against  all  emotionalism,  did  mingle  her  tears  with 
those  of  her  young  friend.  But  these  were  speedily 
dried.  The  accusing  angel  came  back  to  her  in  the 
voice  of  her  young  friend. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  so  much,"  Agnes  said,  "but 
they  are  saying  it  is  all  treachery,  that  every  word 
poor  Myles  said  at  their  meetings  went  back  to  the 
police;  and  that  some  one,  who  was  anxious  to  get 
Myles  out  of  the  way,  made  informations,  and  com- 
pelled the  police  to  arrest  him." 

Every  word  was  a  dagger  in  her  friend's  heart;  but 
she  went  on  unconsciously: 

"I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  that  Mr.  Halpin  — 
the  schoolmaster.  They  are  all  saying  that  he  is  the 
informer,  and  that  he  was  always  anxious  to  get  poor 
Myles  out  of  the  way." 

"They  are  all  saying  that  —  are  they?"  asked  her 
friend. 

"They  are.  You  know  servants  hear  everything; 
and  Janie  here,  who  has  two  or  three  followers  amongst 


114  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

the  —  the  Fenians,  says,  that  the  men  are  swearing 
they'll  shoot  Halpin,  unless  Myles  is  released.  There 
is  to  be  another  rising  — " 

"Ha!"  said  Mary  Carleton,  startled  out  of  her  self- 
possession.  "There  is  to  be  another  rising?  The 
fools!" 

"Yes ! "  continued  Agnes,  volubly.  " But,  Mary,  you 
won't  give  me  away,  or  tell  Mr.  Rendall  — " 

"Agnes,  how  can  you?"  said  Mary  Carleton,  in  a 
tone  of  reproof  and  anger. 

"Pardon!  But  everything  is  so  dangerous  now, 
and  you  never  know  when  you  may  be  quoted,  and 
there  is  so  much  talk  about  spies,  and  traitors,  and 
informers  — " 

"And  you're  afraid  you'll  be  shot  some  night  com- 
ing home  from  confession?" 

"No!  But  then  Mr.  Halpin  was  here  the  other 
night—" 

"Oh!     He  called  on  you?" 

"Yes!  It  was  kind;  but  I  didn't  expect  it.  And 
Father  James  was  here,  and  we  were  talking  about 
everything;  and  then  Mr.  Halpin  said,  the  whole 
thing  was  utterly  hopeless  —  he  meant  the  Fenian 
rising  — " 

"The  wretch!  And  he  Head  Centre,  and  dragging 
these  poor  fellows  into  ruin.  I'm  glad  now  that  your 
brother  is  in  gaol!" 

Agnes  stared  at  her  friend  in  astonishment;  but 
Mary  Carleton,  feeling  now  that  she  had  done  a  noble 
thing  in  saving  Myles  Cogan's  life,  was  buoyant. 

"Oh,  but,"  Agnes  said,  "he  had  some  queer  sayings 
about  some  being  sacrificed  to  save  the  country  from 
—  from  —  putrefaction.  I  think  that  is  the  word  he 
used." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  115 

**  That's  all  very  fine.     But,  why  doesn't  he  sacri- 
fice himself?" 

"But,  he  will,  Mary.     Surely,  if  there  is  a  rising, 
Mr.  Halpin  will  be  killed!" 

Mary  Carleton  looked  closely  at  her  young  friend. 

"Would  you  be  glad  to  hear  it?" 

Agnes  blushed,  looked  down  at  her  hands,  looked 
beseechingly  at  her  friend. 

"No!"  she  said  softly. 

"But  he  got  your  brother  deposed  from  his  Head 
Centreship,  and,  the  people  say,  he  has  betrayed  him." 

Agnes    looked    still    more    bewildered.     Her    friend 
was  probing  too  deeply. 

"You  don't  believe  it?"  said  Mary  Carleton. 

"No!"  said  Agnes,  almost  inaudibly. 

"Nor    I!"    said    Mary    Carleton.     "But    on    what 
grounds  do  you  exculpate  Halpin?" 

Agnes  looked  still  more  shyly  at  her  friend. 

"Because,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  think  Mr.  Halpin 
looked  up  to  Myles,  and  worshipped  him!" 
'  "  Won't  it  be  dreadful,  then,  if  he  is  shot  as  a  traitor?  " 

"It  would  be,  of  course.      But  I  think  Mr.  Hialpin 
doesn't  mind  death.     He  seems  to  be  anxious  for  it!" 

"He  said  so?" 

"No.     He  implied  it.     He  seems  to  feel  that  we 
are  all  called  upon  to  make  sacrifices  now." 

"Even  you?" 

"  Yes!     He  seemed  to  think  we  should  all  be  martyrs, 
and  confessors." 

"He  said  so?" 

"Yes!     He  implied  that  we  all  have  to  suflter,  and 
that  we  should  be  glad  to  do  so!" 

"A  strange  man!"   said  Mary  Carleton,  musingly. 
"I'm   sorry   I   was   a  little   discourteous   to   him  the 


116  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

evening  I  met  him  here.  But,  it  is  so  hard  to  notice 
a  mere  schoolmaster.     Is  it  not?" 

"Myles  had  a  great  regard  for  him!" 

"And  he  for  Myles!  Damon  and  Pythias  again. 
I'm  afraid  these  patriots  have  no  room  for  any  love 
except  among  themselves." 

She  appeared  hurt,  and  rose  to  go. 

"Put  on  your  hat,  and  your  warmest  jacket,"  she 
said,  "and  come  along  for  a  furious  walk." 

That  evening,  just  after  nightfall,  Halpin  was  talk- 
ing nonsense  to  his  little  dog,  when  a  gentle  tap  was 
heard  at  his  door.  It  was  unusual,  and  it  startled 
him  a  little,  after  Myles  Cogan's  arrest.  The  thought 
flashed  across  his  mind: 

"If  they  arrest  me,  what  will  these  poor  fellows  do?" 

But,  instead  of  an  officer  and  his  police,  a  young 
lady,  tall  and  closely  veiled,  stepped  into  the  room. 
Bran  barked  furiously.  Halpin  placed  a  chair.  But 
his  visitor  declined  it.  He  stood  still,  in  an  attitude 
of  waiting. 

"Mr.  Halpin,"  she  said,  "I  must  first  ask  your  for- 
giveness. I  was  rude  to  you  at  Miss  Cogan's  a  few 
nights  ago!" 

The  schoolmaster  bowed. 

"Miss  Carleton  could  not  be  rude,"  he  said.  "She 
only  kept  her  dignity." 

"No  matter.  It  is  no  time  for  compliments.  I 
have  come  on  more  serious  business.  I  understand 
that  you  are  under  suspicion  from  your  comrades." 

He  grew  a  little  pale;   but  said  nothing. 

"I  even  heard  your  life  is  in  danger." 

He  grew  still  paler;   and  grasped  a  chair. 

"As  a  traitor?"  he  said,  in  a  hollow  voice. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  117 

"Yes!  Your  men  have  now  got  hold  of  the  idea 
that  it  was  you  hung  out  the  black  flag  the  day  of  the 
election;  that  it  was  you  got  Mr.  Cogan  deposed  from 
the  oflfice  of  Head  Centre;  that  it  was  on  your  infor- 
mation he  has  been  arrested." 

The  schoolmaster  was  silent,  contending  with  new 
emotions. 

"It  is  Fate,"  he  said.  "The  destiny  that  ever 
follows  in  the  track  of  those  who  want  to  serve  Ireland 
even  at  the  sacrifice  of  their  lives.     I  must  submit!" 

"Of  course!     But  I  want  to  say  one  word." 

She  bit  her  lips,  which  were  drj'  and  pale. 

"If  ever  the  charge  of  Mr.  Cogan's  arrest  should  be 
brought  against  you,  say  it  was  I,  Mary  Carleton, 
who  contrived  it." 

"You?"  said  the  schoolmaster.     "Impossible?" 

"It  is  true!"  she  said,  whilst  the  tears  welled  up  in 
her  eyes.  "I  was  asked  —  I  wanted  —  to  save  him; 
and  there  was  no  other  way." 

"And  you  give  me  permission  to  defend  myself  at 
your  expense?"  he  asked. 

"Yes!     I  won't  have  you  suffer  for  me!" 

"And  you  wish  me  in  this  way  to  divert  the  anger 
and  suspicions  of  my  comrades  to  you?" 

"Yes!     I  have  nothing  to  fear!" 

"Nor  have  I!"  he  said.  "You  are  right,  Miss  Carle- 
ton,  however  you  have  procured  the  information,  there 
is  to  be  a  rising,  and  I  shall  be  the  first  to  fall.  What 
matter  to  me,  whether  I  fall  by  an  English  bullet,  or 
at  the  hands  of  my  comrades?  My  life  shall  be  given 
for  Ireland  either  way.  Therefore  your  name  shall 
never  pass  my  lips,  except  to  one;  and  then  only,  if 
necessary." 

"You  mean  Mr.  Cogan?" 


118  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Yes!  I  couldn't  bear  that  he  should  think  me 
faithless  to  him.     And  besides,  he  ought  to  know — " 

"That  I  betrayed  him?"  she  said. 

"That  you  saved  him;  and  —  forgive  me!  I  was 
near  saying  something  indelicate." 

She  understood,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"He  will  understand!"  said  the  schoolmaster. 


XVIII 

Snow,  snow,  snow,  everywhere!  Broad  flakes,  black 
against  the  sky,  fall  silently,  but  in  their  countless 
myriads  on  mountain  and  valley,  on  the  roofs  of 
houses,  on  groaning  trees,  on  thoroughfares  where 
they  remain  and  form  a  soft  woolly  mass  piled  here 
and  there  in  hillocks  where  man  or  beast  may  be  lost; 
and  on  river  and  lake  or  bog-pond  where  they  are 
noiselessly  swallowed  up,  and  only  manifest  them- 
selves by  the  swelling  of  brown  torrents  that  sweep 
madly  to  the  sea.  Snow  is  two  feet  high  on  the  roads; 
and  a  certain  horseman  has  to  pick  his  steps,  lest  he 
should  plunge  into  unseen  hollows,  and  then  his  deed 
of  daring  should  remain  unaccomplished  for  ever;  and 
snow  is  on  the  roofs  of  the  prison  where  the  said  horse- 
man pulls  up  hot  and  tired  after  his  long  ride,  and 
thunders  at  the  wicket,  whilst  his  horse  champs  his 
bit  and  shakes  the  cold  white  flakes  from  his  eyes 
and  ears.  And  the  snow  comes  down  persistently  and 
covers  the  old  white  head  of  the  gaoler,  who  crosses 
the  courtyard,  swearing  and  grumbling  at  being  called 
away  from  his  hot  fire  and  his  glass  of  warm  toddy  on 
such  a  night. 

He  fumbles  with  half-frozen  hands  at  the  heavy 
keys,  one  of  which  he  selects  by  lantern-light,  fits  it 
into  the  lock,  and  shoots  back  the  bolt.  The  heavy 
iron  gate  swings  to,  and  a  hoarse,  strong  voice  says 
in  an  accent  of  military  command: 

"I  hold  an  order  for  the  immediate  release  of  a 


120  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

certain  Myles  Cogan,  who  is  detained  here  as  her 
Majesty's  prisoner." 

''Maybe  there  are  two  sides  to  that  question,"  said 
the  gaoler,  scrutinising  the  face  and  form  of  the 
stranger.  "Who  the  devil  are  you,  and  where  do  you 
come  from?" 

The  next  moment  he  felt  the  cold  steel  of  a  revolver 
pressed  against  his  forehead  and  heard: 

"No  palavering  or  nonsense,  you  d — d  old  fool. 
Quick,  hand  me  those  keys,  and  show  me  your  prisoner; 
or  I'll  send  six  bullets  through  your  old  carcass." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  old  gaoler,  thoroughly  frightened, 
"there  are  them  that  thinks  as  much  of  Myles  Cogan 
as  you,  whoever  you  are.  But  I  suppose  ye're  a  govern- 
ment officer  and  wants  to  take  him  to  the  County 
Gaol.     So  I'll  bring  him  to  ye! " 

He  shuffled  away;  and  the  stranger,  holding  his 
watch  impatiently  in  his  hands,  began  to  count  the 
seconds.  As  he  did,  a  ghostly  figure  seemed  to  creep 
towards  him,  and  a  ghostly  voice  said: 

" Up  to  time,  Cap'n!     Is  all  right? " 

"All's  right!     Where's  the  mare?" 

"Around  the  corner,  saddled  and  bridled  and  well 
fed  against  the  journey!" 

"Good!  After  all,  you  d — d  Irish  have  something 
in  you.  I  only  wish  I  had  a  drink  and  a  rub  down  for 
this  poor  nag!"  And  he  stroked  the  hot,  steaming  neck 
of  his  horse  affectionately. 

"That  can  be  had,  too,"  said  the  voice.  "And  a 
bite  and  a  sup  for  yourself  agin  the  night.  We,  d — d 
Irish,  can  do  a  bit  of  thinking  for  ourselves  sometimes." 

The  gaoler  and  Myles  were  at  his  elbow. 

"I  deliver  me  pris'ner  into  your  hands,"  said  the 


A  STORY  OF  '67  121 

gaoler.  "But  you'll  have  to  give  me  a  formal  receipt 
or  a  Habeas  Corpus  to  show  the  government." 

The  men  laughed,  as  they  grasped  hands. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Cogan,"  said  the  old  man,  "and 
may  your  journey  thry  '  with  you." 

They  passed  down  the  narrow  lane  and  knocking  at 
a  wicket  sunk  in  the  wall,  they  entered  the  back  yard 
of  a  public  house  under  the  guidance  of  the  man  who 
had  accosted  them.  From  this  they  entered  the 
kitchen,  where  a  steaming  hot  supper  was  laid  out  on 
the  kitchen  table. 

"There,"  said  the  man,  "tuck  in,  officers  of  the  Irish 
Republic!  Your  horses  will  be  ready  when  ye're  done; 
I  am  the  Gineral  commanding  the  whole  Commis- 
sariat Department  for  the  troops!" 

The  two  men  laughed,  as  they  sat  at  supper. 

"At  least,  if  you  do  all  your  work  as  well  as  this, 
you  may  command  a  certificate  from  Captain  McClure!" 

"And  you  are  McClure?"  said  Myles,  enthusiastically, 
stretching  out  his  hand  and  grasping  the  hand  of  the 
officer  across  the  table. 

"I  guess  I  am,"  said  the  other.  "And  now  as  our 
friend  said,  Tuck  in!  We  have  no  time  to  lose.  Look 
after  our  horses,  Commissary-General,  or  I'll  report 
you  at  headquarters!" 

For  the  man  was  staring  open-mouthed  at  the 
young  American  officer,  whose  name  was  alreadj^  well 
known  in  Ireland  as  one  of  the  most  daring  captains 
during  the  Civil  War  in  America. 

"And  whither  are  we  bound?"  said  Myles,  trying  to 
eat  something  through  his  excitement.  "Are  the  men 
out?" 

"My  orders  are  sealed  orders,"  said  McClure,  cau- 

1  Thrive. 


122  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

tiously.  He  seemed  to  be  listening  for  something. 
But  not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the  house.  They 
could  hear  the  champing  in  the  stables  close  by. 

"  But  it  is  the  duty  of  a  soldier  to  look  to  the  present. 
I  guess  you  won't  get  a  meal  like  this  for  many  a  long 
day.  So  lay  in  stores  for  at  least  a  month.  You  know 
our  friend?"     And  he  nodded  towards  the  stables. 

"Well!" 

"Can  he  be  trusted?" 

"As  yourself!" 

"Good!     And  the  people  of  the  house!" 

"  All  right.  The  poor  old  gaoler  will  get  into  trouble, 
though,  when  they  find  their  bird  has  flown." 

"He  has  a  good  defence.  He  felt  the  cold  steel  on 
his  forehead." 

"What,  if  he  had  resisted?" 

"I'd  have  sent  a  bullet  through  his  forehead." 

Myles  shuddered,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the 
slight  figure  and  pale  face  before  him. 

"Don't  shiver,"  said  McClure,  encouragingly. 
"You'll  have  to  steel  your  nerves  against  such  little 
incidents  as  that.  It  was  not  to  play  hide  and  seek 
we  came  over  here!" 

The  men  ate  and  drank  in  silence,  Myles  mindful 
of  the  admonition  that  he  was  commencing  a  soldier's 
life. 

Then  their  host  came  in. 

"Your  horses  are  ready,  gintlemin,"  he  said. 

"  Very  good,"  said  McClure.  "  One  moment,  please!" 
and  he  waved  the  publican  away. 

He  took  out  a  cigar  and  lit  it,  and  smoked  some 
time  in  silence. 

"A  word  with  you,  Cogan!"  he  said,  "before  we 
go!" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  123 

He  paused,  and  then  said: 

"  Let  us  be  open  and  candid.  Can  your  men  be 
trusted?" 

"I  don't  understand.     In  what  way?"  said  Myles. 

"Will  any  of  them  sell  the  pass?" 

"Not  one!  There's  not  a  man  in  the  Brotherhood, 
who  is  not  prepared  to  meet  death  for  his  country's 
sake!" 

"Good!  But  they  have  never  been  under  fire. 
Will  they  run,  do  you  think,  when  they  hear  the  zip, 
zip!  the  tearing  sound  of  the  bullets?" 

"Not  a  man.     They  are  prepared  to  face  anything!" 

"Good!" 

"They  are  badly-armed,  badly-fed,  they  have  no 
cavalry,  no  artillery,  but  strong  arms  and  stout  hearts." 

"  And  you  expect  to  beat  the  same  armies  that  chased 
the  French  all  over  the  Peninsula,  and  smashed  up 
Napoleon  at  Waterloo?" 

Myles  shook  his  head. 

"The  men  do!"  he  said.     "We  don't!" 

"But  the  Republic  —  the  Irish  Republic?"  queried 
the  officer. 

"That's  a  dream  —  a  phantasm!" 

"Then,  damn  it,  what  are  you  fighting  for?" 

"To  save  Ireland!"  said  Myles. 

"From  what?" 

"The  men  believe  from  England;  we  believe,  from 
putrefaction!" 

McClure  pondered  a  little. 

"'Tis  a  Quixotic  idea;  but  there's  something  in  it. 
You  think  blood  must  be  shed?" 

"Yes!  Nothing  else  can  save  the  country  but  the 
salt  of  blood!" 

"But  is  the  country  worth  it?" 


124  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"How  can  you  ask?  I  would  give  fifty,  Halpin  a 
hundred,  lives  to  save  Ireland!" 

"Halpin?     Who  is  he?" 

"Head  Centre  of  our  district  and  in  command  of 
all  our  forces!" 

"But  I  mean  in  private  life?" 

"A  schoolmaster!" 

"I  understand.  You  are  going  out  as  martyrs, 
not  as  soldiers!  'Tis  absurd,  but,  by  Heaven,  it  is 
glorious.     I'm  with  you  to  the  end." 

He  flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  fire,  and  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"There's  no  time  to  lose,"  he  said.     "Let  us  go!" 

Their  host  brought  out  their  horses,  well-fed  and 
groomed  against  the  night-ride.  They  mounted, 
Myles  imitating  his  comrade  by  slinging  and  then 
strapping  a  Winchester  rifle  across  his  shoulders  and 
fastening  a  revolver  in  his  belt.  Then,  with  a  "Good- 
night!" and  a  "good  luck,"  they  trotted  out  slowly 
into  the  street.  The  church-clock,  down  in  the  town, 
was  just  chiming  the  quarters;  and  a  second  after  the 
hour  of  midnight  was  spoken  to  the  sky. 


XIX 

They  had  to  go  quietly  through  the  streets,  for  the 
soft,  velvety  snow  yielded  too  easily  to  their  horses' 
hoofs,  and  enemies  might  be  around.  But  when  they 
left  the  town,  and  ascended  the  hill,  they  were  able  to 
move  more  quickly,  especially  on  the  summits  where  the 
fierce  gusts  of  wind  had  swept  the  roads  bare,  even 
though  the  snow  continued  to  fall.  Four  miles  from 
the  town  they  pulled  up  at  a  forge,  and  knocked. 
There  was  some  demur  on  the  part  of  the  people  inside; 
but  the  watchword  "Aughrim"  speedily  unlocked  the 
door. 

"See  after  our  horses'  hoofs,  Dan!"  said  Myles,  when 
the  first  greetings  were  over.  "We  have  many  a 
rough  mile  before  us!" 

"Yes!  and  many  a  danger,"  said  the  man.  "The 
dragoons  passed  here  an  hour  ago;  and  d — d  uncivil 
customers  they  were." 

Myles  and  McClure  exchanged  glances.  The  latter 
took  a  parchment-scroll  and  a  map  from  his  pocket; 
and  held  it  up,  after  breaking  the  seal  against  the 
forge  fire. 

"Slieve-Ruadh!"  he  read.  "That's  our  destina- 
tion; and  we  must  be  there  before  morning.  Can  we 
do  it?" 

"'Tis  a  good  twenty  miles!"  said  the  smith.  "Up 
hill  and  down  valley,  and  as  cross  a  country  as  ever 
ye  travelled." 


126  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"But  surely  we  can  do  five  miles  an  hour,"  said 
Myles,  "and  that  will  bring  us  there  at  five  o'clock,  if 
we  don't  miss  our  way." 

"Faith  then,  Masther  Myles,  but  that's  likely  enough, 
too." 

"I  know  the  place;  but  I  don't  know  the  roads," 
said  Myles.     "Let  us  see  the  map,  Captain!" 

They  examined  the  ordnance  map  carefully.  Roads 
seemed  to  branch  off  in  every  direction.  Yet  there 
were  the  worm-like  dark  lines  that  marked  the  summit 
of  Slieve-Ruadh,  there  was  the  river  flowing  beneath 
to  the  Shannon.  It  seemed  such  a  small  span  of 
country  —  such  as  might  be  ridden  over  at  a  fox-hunt. 

They  talked  the  matter  over,  whilst  the  smith  was 
kniving  and  frosting  the  horses,  and  greasing  the 
interior  of  their  hooves  lest  they  should  pick  up  snow- 
balls by  the  way. 

"Don't  make  light  of  it,  Master  Myles!"  he  said. 
"It  will  be  a  straight  run  to  hounds  ontil  ye  mount. 
Knock-a-inhuic;  and  thin,  ye  have  a  vallej'^  before 
ye,  where  no  road  was  ever  made  except  by  the  goats 
since  Adam;  and  then  ye  have  a  stiff  climb  up  this 
side  of  Slieve-Ruadh,  before  ye  descind  into  the  valley." 

"Well,  there's  no  time  to  spare,  I  guess!"  said 
McClure.     "How  much,  my  man?" 

"Divil  a  penny  to  ye!"  said  the  smith.  "Don't  I 
know  what  ye're  bint  on,  as  well  as  yereselves.  Banaith- 
lath!  And  may  no  divil  of  a  Sassenach  ever  lay  his 
hands  on  ye!" 

They  spurred  again  into  the  night;  and  now  a  faint 
moonlight  spread  across  the  sky,  which  made  their 
journey  easier,  whilst  the  snow,  still  falling  swiftly, 
concealed  them  from  prying  eyes  that  were  sure  to  be 
watching  for  such  as  they  that  night. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  127 

At  last,  they  cantered  through  a  lonely  village. 
The  lights  were  all  out;  and  the  snow  lay  in  heaps  on 
the  thatched  roofs.  They  were  drawing  in  a  little 
to  ease  their  horses,  when  a  sudden  gleam  of  light, 
which  reddened  the  snow  before  them,  suggested  to 
Myles  that  they  were  just  about  to  pass  the  Constab- 
ulary barracks,  where  every  man  would  be  on  the 
alert. 

"Spur  for  your  life!"  he  whispered  to  McClure; 
and  both  horsemen  dashed  forward  at  a  gallop.  For- 
tunately, the  heavy  snow  had  deadened  the  noise  of 
their  approach;  but  their  swift  and  suspicious  flight 
athwart  the  windows  of  the  barracks  roused  the  men. 

The  riders  heard  behind  them  the  command: 

"Halt!  Halt!  there!"  and  the  next  moment  a  rifle- 
bullet  whizzed  between  them.  They  heard  its  soft 
thud,  as  it  struck  a  tree  by  the  wayside. 

"Good!"  said  Myles,  without  slackening  his  speed. 
"I  can  say  at  least  that  I  have  been  under  fire!" 

McClure  was  silent.  He  was  contrasting  in  his 
mind  wild,  dare-devil  rides  such  as  this  across  the 
plains  of  Georgia,  down  by  Atlanta,  under  the  walls  of 
Richmond;  but  oh!  how  different!  Then  he  had 
scores  of  gallant  comrades  beside  him,  whose  wild 
laughter  rang  out  above  the  jinghng  of  spurs,  or  the 
musical  rattle  of  chain-bridles,  or  the  clank  of  sabres; 
and,  behind  him,  were  massed  the  myriads  of  the 
North,  fully-equipped,  and  under  the  command  of 
experienced  generals.  There,  if  they  carried  their 
lives  in  their  hands,  at  least  they  would  meet  an 
honourable  death,  without  fear  of  the  hangman's 
noose;  and,  if  they  came  out  of  the  battle  un- 
scathed, why,  there  were  epaulettes  and  gold  lace  and 
honour.     But  here  was  a  solitary  comrade,  who  had 


128  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

never  heard  a  shot  fired  in  anger  until  two  minutes 
ago;  and  there  were  a  gang  of  poor,  unarmed  peasants, 
who  were  going  to  fight  with  pitchforks  and  pikes  the 
trained  armies  of  the  Empire.  He  actually  laughed 
outright  at  the  absurdity. 

"That's  the  first  time  you  have  heard  the  whizz  of 
a  bullet?"  he  said  to  Myles. 

"Yes!"  said  Myles.  "I  know  the  rattle  of  duck- 
shot  on  an  autumn  morning;  but  that  seems  different 
somehow!" 

"Rather.  And  if  you  heard  the  scream  of  a  shell 
above  your  head;  or  the  rattle  of  grape,  Uke  hailstones 
on  a  glass  roof  —  what  then?" 

"A  man  has  only  one  Hfe,"  said  Myles,  proudly. 
"What  matter  whether  he  gets  his  skull  open  by  a 
sabre  cut;  or  is  torn  up  by  a  bullet.  'Tis  all  the 
same!" 

"So  it  is!  so  it  is!"  said  McClure.  "And  whether 
a  man  gives  up  his  life,  fighting  for  the  emancipation 
of  an  American  nigger,  or  to  make  these  poor  devils 
of  Irishmen  into  men  —  isn't  it  all  the  same?" 

"We're  too  far  gone  to  discuss  the  matter,"  said 
Myles,  with  a  Uttle  show  of  anger.  "  We  have  to  face 
what's  before  us;  and  talk  about  reason  and  motive 
hereafter." 

"Well  said,"  answered  McClure.  "But  I'm  just 
thinking  what  hay-eating  asses  the  miUtary  here  must 
be  to  leave  such  a  road  as  this  unpatrolled  and  unam- 
bushed  at  such  a  time." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  word  when  a  black 
figure  seemed  to  start  up  out  of  the  ground  before 
them,  and  to  swing  his  arms  in  a  warning  manner. 
They  drew  up,  and,  with  the  instinct  of  a  soldier, 
McClure  put  his  hand  on  his  revolver. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  129 

"Good-night,  gintlemin!"  said  the  apparition. 

"Go  to  the  devil,  man,"  said  McClure,  angry  at 
being  stopped. 

"Begor,  maybe  you'd  be  there  before  me,  av  I  didn't 
stop  ye!"  was  the  reply. 

"Well,  well,  what's  the  matter?"  said  McClure. 

"The  matther  is  this,"  said  the  peasant,  leisurely. 
"There's  a  crass  road  a  mile  a  head  o'  ye.  Av  ye  takes 
the  road  to  the  right,  ye'll  soon  come  up  with  a  squad- 
ron of  dragoons,  and  maybe  ye'll  put  'em  to  flight,  or 
maybe  they'd  sind  ye  where  you  were  polite  enough 
to  sind   me.     Av  ye  takes  the   middle  road,   it  will 

take  ye  into  C ,  where  the  red-coats  have  a  hoult  of 

the  railway,  and  the  peelers  are  waltzing  up  and  down 
the  shthreets.  But  av  ye  takes  the  road  to  the  left, 
it  will  lade  ye  to  the  Hill  of  the  Black  Pig,  and  from 
there  ye  may  see  yere  comrades.  Good-night!  and 
God  be  wid  ye  en  yere  journey!" 

"A  queer  people!"  said  McClure.  "They  seem  to 
know  everything.  But  they're  a  trifle  tough  and  long 
winded!" 

"They're  as  true  as  steel!"  said  Myles. 

"Don't  tell  me  that,  Cogan!"  said  McClure.  "I 
know  them  better  than  you." 

They  were  silent  henceforward,  until,  as  the  morning 
dawned,  the  snowstorm  thinned  out  into  tiny  flakes, 
then  into  sleet,  then  lifted  itself  up,  and  sped  towards 
the  mountains,  and  they  saw  a  level  plain  before  them, 
and  the  view  was  bounded  by  a  slight  elevation,  snow- 
capped also,  which  they  guessed  was  the  Hill  of  the 
Black  Pig. 

They  were  now  exposed  to  observation  from  every 
side;  but  they  rode  along  the  face  of  a  high  plateau; 
and   from   the   plains  beneath   they   could   hardly  be 


130  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

seen.  They  slowly  mounted  the  shght  acclivity;  the 
road  suddenly  ceased;  and  they  gazed  down  at  a  long, 
deep  valley  through  which  a  black  river  was  cutting 
its  way.  Here  and  there  a  village  arose,  only  visible 
as  a  huge  snow-ball  in  the  morning  light.  A  few  trees 
masked  the  homes  of  prosperous  farmers;  across  the 
valley  the  ground  rose  up  precipitously,  the  mountain 
having  the  appearance  of  having  been  sheared  perpen- 
dicularly from  the  summit  downward.  The  glen  over 
which  they  now  stood,  sloped  down  at  a  very  sharp 
angle.  It  was  covered  Avith  rocks  and  heather,  which 
now  made  hillocks  of  snow.  Black  spots  here  and 
there  marked  deep  bogholes;  and  they  judged  from 
the  ground  beneath  them  that  the  surface  of  the  glen 
was  shifting  and  sUppery  shingle.  No  trace  of  road 
or  passage  was  observable,  but  after  some  delay  and 
close  examination,  they  thought  they  had  found  a  foot- 
path, which  was  the  only  possible  way  of  descent. 

Slowly  and  carefully,  their  horses'  bridles  hanging 
loosely  over  their  arms,  they  moved  down  the  hillside, 
wisely  leaving  the  animals  to  themselves. 

"What  a  mark  for  a  rifle-shot  we  make  now,"  said 
McClure.  "Black  specks  on  a  white  ground.  Even 
the  Enghsh  could  not  miss  us!" 

Stumbling,  sKpping,  sliding,  now  kneedeep  in  a 
hidden  boghole,  which  was  lightly  covered  with  un- 
melted  snow,  now  knocking  against  a  hidden  boulder, 
they  made  the  perilous  descent;  and  when  they 
emerged  on  the  high  road,  the  two  men  were  bathed 
in  perspiration,  and  their  horses'  flanks  were  white 
with  sweat. 

An  old  woman,  standing  at  the  door  of  a  rude  and 
ruined  cabin,  stared  at  them,  her  withered  hands 
shading  her  eyes  from  the  white  glare. 


A  S'lt)RY  OF   'G7  131 

"You're  up  early,  granny,"  said  McClure. 

"I  am,  agragal,  and  so  are  ye,"  she  said.  "I  was 
just  making  a  cup  of  tay  agin  the  cowld  mornin'." 

"And  a  good  thing  to  do,"  rejoined  McClure. 
"What  would  you  say  if  we  joined  you  in  drinking  it?" 

"An'  welkum  —  and  welkum,  a  hundred  times," 
she  said.  "But  sure  ye're  the  bould  min  intirely  to  be 
shtandin'  out  there,  an'  the  sojers  and  peelers  at  the 
other  side  of  the  hill." 

"True  for  you,"  said  McClure.  "But  in  war,  we 
must  take  our  chances." 

"If  I  were  ye,"  said  the  old  woman,  lowering  her 
voice,  "I'd  take  thim  horses  of  yeres  here  behind  the 
shelter  of  the  ould  cabin,  an'  I'll  have  the  tay  ready 
for  ye,  when  ye  comes  in." 

They  saw  the  wisdom  of  it;  and  pulled  round  the 
wretched  building.  Here  they  were  out  of  observa- 
tion, except  fromthe;hill  from  which  they  had  descended. 

A  bowl  of  tea  and  a  junk  of  home-made  bread  re- 
vived them.  They  put  a  coin  on  the  rough  deal 
table. 

"No,  no,  no!"  said  the  old  woman,  "I  know  ye,  and 
where  ye're  goin'  this  blessed  mornin'.  May  God  be 
wid  ye,  and  bring  ye  safe." 

But  McClure  persisted. 

"'Tisn't  for  the  tea  and  bread  I'm  giving  it  to 
you,"  he  said;  "but  as  a  keepsake  to  remember  two 
Fenians." 

She  grabbed  the  coin,  and  kissed  it  passionately, 
then  rubbed  it  in  her  apron. 

"I'll  keep  it,"  she  said,  "I'll  keep  it;  an'  'twill  be 
the  cowld  and  hungry  day  when  I  part  with  it.  But 
I'll  hang  it  round  httle  Patsey's  neck;  and  tell  him 
where  it  kem  from." 


132  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

They  drew  out  their  horses  into  the  main  road;  and 
were  about  to  leave,  when  McClure  said: 

"The  devil!  We  never  thought  of  asking  how  we 
are  to  climb  that  wall.  Come  here,  Granny!  Is 
there  a  road,  or  a  ladder,  or  any  way,  where  we  can  get 
over  that  hill  yonder." 

"There  is,"  she  said.  "Half  a  mile  down  the  road, 
ye'll  come  to  an  ash-tree  on  the  right.  Turn  sharp, 
and  ye'll  shtrike  on  the  main  road  that  runs  through 
Slieve  Ruadh.     And  thin — " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"Take  care  of  yereselves,  when  ye  gets  out  an  the 
top.  The  byes  heard  firing  down  to  the  esht  this 
mornin'  airly;  there's  bad  work  goin'  on  there.  Banath- 
lath!" 

"  Banath-lath!^'  said  the  men,  as  they  slowly  passed 
down  the  road. 

True  enough,  at  the  end  of  half  a  mile,  there  was  a 
high  ash-tree,  and,  turning  sharply,  they  ascended  the 
public  road  that  led  over  the  mountain.  Vast  quarries 
of  red  sandstone,  whence  the  mountain  took  its  name, 
were  on  their  right  hand,  and  on  their  left.  They 
saw  the  deep  scars  everywhere  left  by  pick  and  powder. 
Then,  almost  before  they  expected  it,  they  crested  the 
hill;  and  a  vast,  snow-covered  plain,  extending  for 
miles,  lay  before  them. 


XX 


The  sharp  crack  of  rifles  from  a  plantation  of  fir- 
trees,  far  down  on  the  left  hand,  was  borne  to  their 
ears  on  the  cold,  frosty  air. 

"Dismount  at  once!"  said  McClure,  "and  keep  on 
the  right  flank  of  your  horse.  And  I  shall  go  forward 
twenty  paces  or  so.  Go  slowly,  and  let  them  think 
these  are  mountain  nags  out  for  an  early  airing." 

They  dismounted,  and  led  the  horses  slowly  along 
the  high  road.  Then  McClure,  still  holding  the 
horse's  bridle,  stepped  into  a  deep  hollow,  where  he 
could  not  be  seen;  and  taking  out  a  field-glass,  he 
scrutinised  hill  and  valley  carefully. 

"The  fighting  is  going  on  in  that  plantation,"  he 
said.  "The  men  on  both  sides  are  hidden  from  view, 
and  the  river  runs  between  them;  but  a  lot  of  fellows 
are  scurrying  away  over  the  mountains.  Can  they 
be  scouts  or  pickets,  I  wonder,  or  — " 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  Myles,  whose  face  showed 
marked  signs  of  anxiety. 

"They  may  be  the  peelers,  drawing  in  around  the 
wood,"  he  said. 

"No!"  said  McClure.  "They  are  in  bodies  of  three 
or  four  men;  and  they  are  running  up  the  mountain 
side,  and  then  disappearing." 

He  replaced  the  glass,  saying: 

"No  matter.     We  must  give  them  a  look-in!" 

They  passed  down  the  hill  more  rapidly,  and  turned 


134  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

sharply  to  the  left.  A  farmer's  house  stood  near  the 
road.     The  man  was  calmly  smoking  in  his  doorway. 

"Must  be  a  lot  of  woodcock  around  here?"  said 
McClure.  "They're  potting  away  the  game,  Uke 
mad." 

"Yaos!"  drawled  the  farmer.  "Well  for  the  game 
if  they  had  wings  to  fly,  I  guess!" 

"Yank?"  said  McClure. 

"No!  Irish!"  said  the  man.  "But,  perhaps,  ye're 
goin'  to  take  a  hand,"  as  he  watched  the  rifles,  and  the 
caparison  of  the  horses.  "I  guess  that  shootin'-iron 
of  yours  was  never  made  in  this  country.  It  has  a 
look  of  Waltham  about  it." 

"Look  here!"  said  McClure.  "You  know  a  thing 
or  two.  I  am  McClure,  Captain  McClure  of  the 
9th " 

The  man's  pipe  fell  from  his  mouth,  and  was  broken, 
as  he  leaped  forward,  and  grasped  the  officer's  hand. 

"Tare-an-ages,  man,"  hesaid.  "McClure!  McClure! 
Why,  we  fought  side  by  side,  at  Fredericksburg.  And 
what  the  devil  are  you  doin'  here?" 

"Captain!"  said  Myles.  "Our  fellows  are  under 
fire  yonder.     Let  us  hurry  on!" 

"True!"  said  the  Captain.  "How  can  we  reach 
the  Fenians?" 

"An'  yere  goin'  to  fight  a  regiment  of  infantry,  and 
a  squadron  of  peelers  with  two  guns;  for  the  fellows 
yonder  have  only  spades  and  pikes.  Well,  I'm 
jiggered!" 

"You  won't  tell  on  them?"  said  Myles.  "Well, 
don't  give  us  away,  anyhow!" 

"No,  sonny,  I  won't,"  said  the  farmer.  "That 
ain't  my  way.  An'  if  yere  so  bent  on  throwing  away 
yere  lives,  wal,  there  is  a  boreen  a  few  hundred  yards 


A  STORY  OF  '67  135 

further  on.  Get  in  there,  and  move  along;  and,  I 
guess,  ye'll  soon  see  the  red  tunics,  and  hear  the  rip- 
ping of  the  bullets.  But,  oh!  McClure,  McClure!" 
And  he  turned  away. 

Myles  was  growing  impatient,  and  hurried  on.  Sure 
enough  down  the  road  a  boreen  turned  off  at  a  sharp 
angle  from  the  road.  They  followed  it  for  a  httle 
distance;  and  then,  leaving  their  horses  tethered  to 
a  fir-tree,  they  crept  along  under  shelter  of  the  high 
ditch,  which  was  topped  with  furze  and  white  thorn; 
and  soon  they  reached  an  open  space,  where  they 
reconnoitred.  To  the  left  was  a  thin  plantation  of 
fir-trees,  and  they  could  see  the  splinters  and  branches 
falling,  as  the  EngUsh  bullets  cut  them.  A  deep 
river  rolled  darkly  in  front.  Across  the  r  ver  was  a 
spacious  upland,  dotted  here  and  there  by  the  red 
coats  of  the  infantry,  w^hilst  an  occasional  puff  of 
smoke  showed  that  the  soldiers  too  were  ambushed 
away  in  a  thick  wood  on  the  other  side.  The  firing 
from  the  soldiers  was  intermittent,  but  constant. 
No  volleys,  but  single  shots  fired  rapidly  into  the 
plantation.  From  the  plantation,  the  firing  had 
almost  ceased.  Now  and  again,  a  rifle  rang  out,  and 
a  bullet  whizzed  across  the  river.  Then  there  was  a 
pause. 

"Few  men  there!"  whispered  McClure,  "or  their 
ammunition  is  giving  out." 

They  waited  a  few  moments.  Then,  a  few  shots 
rang  in  rapid  succession  from  the  soldiers,  and  McClure 
cried: 

"Now,  one  brave  dash  across  the  open." 

They  crossed  without  accident;  and  found  them- 
selves in  a  thick  plantation,  mostly  planted  with  young 
fir-trees,  although  here  and  there,  the  big  boles  of  older 


136  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

trees  gave  adequate  shelter.  A  high  ditch  bounded 
the  wood  on  the  south;  and  just  outside  it,  the  swollen 
river,  looking  black  against  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
the  snow,  rolled  turbidly  along.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be 
seen.  They  proceeded  cautiously,  bending  low,  for 
the  bullets  were  crashing  over  their  heads.  They  then 
paused  to  listen.  A  sharp  crack  near  at  hand  brought 
them  in  another  direction;  and  there,  lying  flat  against 
the  ditch,  his  rifle  protruding  above,  and  just  now 
smoking  after  the  discharge,  was  Halpin.  Myles 
advanced  towards  him. 

"Halpin,  you?"  he  said.    "Where  are  the  men?" 

"Lie  down,  Ue  down,  at  once,"  he  repUed.  "Whom 
have  you  brought?" 

"McClure!"  said  Myles.  "Captain,  this  is  our 
Head  Centre,  Mr.  Halpin." 

"  Let  me  beg  of  you  both  to  lie  flat  against  the  ditch," 
said  Halpin.  "  Ha!  I  see  you  have  your  rifles.  There's 
the  objective.     Keep  firing  whilst  we  talk." 

And  promptly,  the  two  men  pushed  forward  their 
guns,  and  sent  a  dozen  bullets  across  the  river.  It 
was  so  sudden,  the  troops,  who  were  kneeUng  here 
and  there,  in  open  formation,  ran  for  shelter  to  the 
wood;   and  a  young  officer  rode  out  to  reconnoitre. 

"But,  Halpin,  where  are  the  men?  Where  are  the 
Fenians?     Do  you  mean  that  you  are  fighting  alone?" 

"Quite  alone!"  said  Halpin,  quietly.  "The  fellows 
had  only  a  fowling-piece  or  two.  There  was  an  abun- 
dance of  pikes.  I  saw  it  was  hopeless,  and  I  dismissed 
them,  just  as  I  shall  now  dismiss  you!" 

"There  are  two  sides  to  that  question,"  said  Myles. 
McClure  was  popping  away,  as  fast  as  his  rifle  could 
be  loaded.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sport  of  shooting 
at  the  red-coats. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  137 

"No!"  said  Halpin.  "There  is  only  one  side.  Ye 
had  no  right  to  come  here;  and  must  leave  at  once!" 

"We  thought  you  had  a  thousand  men  here,"  was 
the  answer. 

"So  I  had.  But  what  avail  were  they  against  two 
hundred  armed  and  trained?  They  were  no  use  here, 
except  to  get  fired  at.  If  I  took  them  into  the  open 
on  the  charge,  half  would  have  been  shot  down.  But 
now,  quick!     You  and  McClure  must  go!" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Myles.  "McClure  must  go! 
His  Ufe  is  too  valuable  to  be  thrown  away.  But,  why 
haven't  the  soldiers  crossed  over  and  arrested  you, 
or  shot  you,  as  would  be  more  likely?" 

"They  think  the  wood  is  full  of  men;  and  that 
we  are  trying  to  decoy  them.  If  they  thought  there 
were  only  three  here,  they  would  be  down  on  us  in  a 
moment." 

"But  they  must  find  it  out?" 

"Of  course,  and  soon.  Your  rifles  keep  them  busy 
now;  but  we  can't  keep  it  up.  And,  therefore,  you 
both  must  go,  Captain  McClure?" 

"Yes!" 

"You  know  it  is  the  duty  of  a  soldier  not  to  throw 
away  his  life  unnecessarily?" 

"I  do." 

"Well,  if  you  remain  here  half  an  hour  longer,  you 
will  be  shot;   or  you  have  the  scaffold  before  you!" 

"I  understand!" 

"Then  go  back  the  way  you  came!  There  is  time 
yet." 

"And  if  I  refuse?" 

"Then,  I  step  over  that  ditch,  and  get  twenty 
English  bullets  through  me!" 

"And  Cogan?" 


138  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Let  him  decide  for  himself.     But  you  must  go." 

McClure  stepped  aside,  and  seemed  to  be  brushing 
away  something  from  his  eyes. 

He  grasped  Halpin's  hand. 

"You're  right/'  he  said.  "A  man  mustn't  throw 
away  his  hfe.  I  can  do  a  Uttle  harm  yet.  But,  if 
ever  I  get  back  to  the  States,  I'll  tell  them  there  that 
I  have  seen  the  two  Goddarnedest  fools,  but  the  two 
bravest  men,  on  this  old  tub  of  the  earth." 

He  slid  away,  and  got  safely  under  shelter,  where 
the  horses  were.  He  loosened  both  bridles,  and  let 
Myles  Cogan's  horse  free.  Then  he  led  his  own  care- 
fully away. 

He  had  already  reached  the  end  of  the  boreen, 
when  he  heard  shouts  from  the  plantation. 

"That's  the  end!"  and  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse. 

It  was.  In  an  incautious  moment,  Halpin  exposed 
himself,  and  a  bullet  passed  through  his  right  lung. 
Myles  heard  the  fall  and  the  thud  of  the  rifle  on  the 
snow.  He  ran  to  help  his  fallen  comrade,  when  he 
found  himself  pinioned  from  behind;  and  with  the 
irons  on  his  hands  and  ankles  he  was  flung  violently 
on  the  snow. 


XXI 

The  police,  seeing  the  men  fleeing  over  the  moun- 
tain, had  crept  around  cautiously,  and  surrounded 
the  wood.  Then  they  had  closed  in,  stepping  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  making  no  noise  on  the  soft  snow. 
They  were  within  a  few  feet  of  Myles  and  Halpin 
when  the  bullet  struck  the  latter.     The  rest  was  easy. 

They  beckoned  to  the  soldiers  across  the  river,  who 
speedily  crossed.  The  young  officer  rode  up;  and  the 
men,  grounding  their  arms,  stood  to  attention.  Then 
gazing  around  him,  the  officer  said: 

"Where  are  the  rebels?" 

A  policeman  pointed  to  the  prostrate  men. 

"But  the  main  bulk  of  them?  There  must  have 
been  a  few  hundred  men  here  at  least.  Disperse,  men, 
and  search  every  inch  of  the  wood." 

The  men  dispersed  in  every  direction.  The  officer 
dismounted,  and,  holding  his  horse's  bridle,  came  over 
to  where  Myles  and  Halpin  were  lying.  He  took  out 
a  notebook  and  pencil. 

"Your  names?" 

"My  name  is  Cogan;   my  dying  comrade  is  Halpin." 

"Dying?" 

"Yes!    He's  shot  through  the  right  lung." 

Halpin  was  lying  back,  leaning  somewhat  to  the 
right  side.  He  was  spitting  blood,  which  made  rings 
of  red  on  the  snow. 

"Where  are  your  men?" 

"I  don't  know.     They  were  dispersed  an  hour  ago." 


140  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Damn  it!  Do  you  mean  that  we  have  been  fight- 
ing two  men  for  the  last  hour?" 

"One!"  said  Myles.     "I  am  here  only  a  few  minutes." 

The  ofiicer  looked  thoroughly  ashamed.  Myles  said: 

"I  beg  pardon.  My  comrade  is  dying.  Let  me  say 
a  few  words  to  him,  before  he  passes  away." 

The  officer  at  once  gave  the  order  that  the  irons 
were  to  be  taken  off.     The  police  murmured: 

"A  most  dangerous  Fenian!  He  was  in  gaol;  and 
must  have  broken  out." 

"No  matter,"  said  the  young  officer,  angrily.  He 
was  furious  at  the  thought  that  one  man  had  kept 
them  at  bay  for  an  hour.  "A  half  regiment  of  British 
infantry  and  a  hundred  constabulary  should  be  able 
to  hold  him.     Let  him  speak  to  his  comrade!" 

Myles  knelt  down;  and  bent  his  head  low  over  the 
dying  man.     He  heard  the  words: 

"A  priest,  and  at  once!" 

He  approached  the  officer. 

"My  friend  and  I  are  Roman  Cathohcs.  He  is 
djdng.  It  is  of  supreme  importance  that  he  should 
have  the  services  of  a  priest.  Would  you  send  for 
one?" 

"Where?     How  far?" 

"The  town  of  T is  only  two  miles  distant.     One 

of  your  men  could  go,  and  say,  'a  man  is  dying.  Come 
quickly!'" 

The  men  had  come  back  looking  ashamed  and  crest- 
fallen. 

"The  ground  was  well  trampled,"  said  the  sergeant, 
"but  not  a  man  could  be  found!" 

"Look  here,  Hopkins,"  said  the  officer,  "this  poor 
fellow  wants  a  priest.  The  place  is  two  miles  distant. 
Who  is  our  smartest  runner?" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  141 

"  Gatehead,  Sir !     But  the  snow?  —  " 

"Quite  so.  Look  here!"  he  cried,  dismounting. 
"Take  my  horse,  and  ride  as  rapidly  as  you  can. 
What  will  the  Sergeant  say?"  he  queried,  turning  to 
Myles. 

"Simply  say  to  the  first  man  you  meet,  'A  man  is 
shot  at  the  foot  of  Slieve  Ruadh,  and  wants  a  priest 
immediately.'" 

"Very  good!  Go  ahead,  Hopkins,  and  lose  no 
time!" 

Myles  went  back  to  Halpin,  and  knelt  down.  The 
dying  man  said  feebly: 

"Water!" 

And  at  once  the  men  ran  to  the  river,  and  filled 
their  canteens.  He  took  a  long  draught  of  the  clear, 
cold  water.  It  seemed  to  revive  him.  One  of  the 
soldiers  approached  the  ofiicer,  and  said  something 
in  a  low  tone.  The  oflScer  nodded;  and  four  of  the 
men,  taking  off  their  great  coats,  came  over,  and  Ufting 
the  dying  Fenian  made  a  bed  for  him  on  the  snow. 

The  tears  started  to  his  eyes. 

"Thanks,  comrades!"  he  said. 

Then  seeing  the  blood  all  around  on  the  snow,  he 
whispered  to  Myles: 

"I'm  luckier  than  Sarsfield.  This  is  shed  for 
Ireland!" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  the  orderly,  and  a 
young  priest  on  horseback,  rode  up,  and  the  latter, 
rapidly  dismounting,  knelt  on  the  snow  near  the  dying 
man,  and  administered  the  last  Sacraments.  When 
he  had  finished,  Halpin  begged  Myles  to  approach 
Halpin  took  out  his  beads;  and  then  fumbling  a  little 
in  his  vest,  he  found  what  appeared  to  be  a  little  silver 
cup.     It  was  a  medal  of  the  Immaculate  Conception, 


142  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMCRNA 

which  a  bullet  had  struck,  and  glanced  off.  Halpin 
gave  both  to  Myles,  and  then  added  his  prayer-book, 
which  was  stained  with  blood. 

"  My  rehcs! "  he  said,  smiUng.  "I'm  growing  fainter. 
A  Uttle  more  water!" 

He  revived  again;  and  said  to  Myles: 

"Do  you  know  who  got  you  arrested  at  home?" 

"No!"  said  Myles,  curiously. 

"You  know  the  men  suspected  me?" 

"I  heard  so;  but  you  know,  Halpin,  I  never 
believed  such  a  thing!     It  was  that  cad,  Rendall!" 

"Of  course.  But  what  induced  Rendall  to  arrest 
you?" 

"I  don't  know!" 

"It  was  Miss  Carleton!" 

"Miss— Mary  Carleton?" 

"Yes!  I'm  growing  very  weak.  Is  the  priest 
there?" 

"Yes!" 

"Ask  him  to  remain  to  the  end!" 

The  priest  was  only  too  wiUing. 

"Miss  Carleton,"  gasped  Halpin,  "knew  there  was 
to  be  a  rising;  and  she  wanted  to  save  your  Ufe.  There 
was  no  other  way!" 

"You  know  this  for  certain,  Halpin?"  said  Myles, 
who  was  choking  with  emotion. 

"I  had  it  from  her  own  Ups.  She  called  on  me! 
Ask  the  priest  to  come  here!" 

The  priest  came  over;  and  there  was  a  little  con- 
ference with  the  dying  man.  He  beckoned  Myles 
again  to  approach. 

"My  will  is  in  the  cupboard  in  my  room.  Tell  the 
priest  it  will  be  found  there,  and  to  give  my  belong- 
ings to  the  person  indicated.     Lean  down!" 


A  STORY  OF   '67  143 

Myles  bent  down  to  catch  the  last  breath  of  the 
dying  man. 

"Tell  Agnes  —  your  sister  — " 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  Myles. 

"Tell  Agnes  that—" 

He  stopped;  and  Myles,  gazing  at  him,  saw  the  grey 
shadow  cross  his  face.     Halpin  was  dead. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  respectful  silence,  the  officer 
ordered  the  men  to  fall  in.  Myles  approached  the 
priest,  and,  taking  out  the  beads,  and  prayer-book, 
and  medal  of  the  dead  patriot,  he  handed  them  to  the 
latter,  saying: 

"These  are  the  sacred  relics  of  my  dead  comrade, 
which  I  cannot  keep.  His  will  is  in  the  cupboard  in 
his  room.     Perhaps  you  would  write  to  Father  James 

of  K and  explain  all.      And  I'm  sure  I  may 

leave  his  obsequies  in  your  hands.  But,  he  is  to  be 
buried  in  our  grave-plot,  and  nowhere  else." 

"That  you  may,  my  poor  fellow,"  said  the  priest. 
"Good-bye!  God  knows  I'm  sorry  for  you  both. 
I'll  write  your  wishes  to  Father  James." 

They  shook  hands,  and  parted.  A  few  seconds 
after,  Myles,  under  a  strong  escort  of  police,  and  with 
his  hands  manacled  behind  his  back,  was  marched 
across  the  open  glade,  which  he  had  crossed  but  half  an 
hour  before.  He  looked  with  some  curiosity  at  the  fir- 
tree,  where  McClure  and  himself  had  tethered  their 
horses,  and  thought. 

"Half  an  hour  ago,  I  was  a  free  man,  able  to  go 
where  I  pleased.     Now,  my  foot  is  on  the  scaffold." 

The  Irish-American  who  had  accosted  them  was 
again  at  his  own  door  smoking.  He  seemed  to  look 
on  unconsciously.  Myles  did  not  notice  him.  A  nod 
would   have   meant   another   arrest.     The   man   went 


144  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

back  to  his  fire,  and  remained  there  a  long  time  medi- 
tating.    Then  he  rose  up,  and  went  out. 

"Yes,  darned  fools,"  he  said  aloud,  "but,  there  is 
a  hope  for  a  race  that  can  beget  such  men."  Half 
an  hour  later,  as  he  stood  again  at  his  door,  he  saw 
that  far  down,  where  the  boreen  cut  the  road,  a  funeral 
procession  was  approaching.  A  priest  was  in  front, 
reciting  the  prayers  for  the  dead. 

"Ha!"  said  the  farmer.  "I  guessed  all  that  shoot- 
ing wasn't  for  nothing." 

The  procession  stopped  on  the  road.  Four  men 
bore  on  their  shoulders  a  door,  on  which  the  dead 
body  of  the  Fenian  was  laid.  They  stopped,  and 
the  priest  said: 

"We  have  to  wake  this  poor  fellow  here,  Mr.  Lom- 
bard.    Will  you  take  him  in  till  tomorrow?" 

"Are  there  no  more?"  the  man  queried. 

"No  more.     I'll  send  out  everything  this  evening." 

"And  they  were  firing  since  five  o'clock  this  morn- 
ing. I  thought  they  had  killed  a  thousand  at  least. 
Come  in!     Come  in!" 

They  waked  the  dead  patriot  with  all  solemnity;  and 
two  days  after,  they  bore  him  on  their  shoulders  from 
hamlet  to  hamlet,  up  hill  and  down  hollow  —  a  silent 
phalanx  of  five  hundred  men,  until  they  placed  him  in 
the  resting-place  of  the  Cogans,  where  one  day  Myles 
hoped  to  rest,  side  by  side,  with  his  dead  comrade. 

All  that  day,  in  his  native  town,  the  escape  of  Myles 
Cogan  was  the  one  subject  of  conversation.  The 
wildest  reports  were  afloat. 

"A  thousand  Fenians,  armed  to  the  teeth,  had  sur- 
rounded the  gaol,  and  had  threatened  to  burn  it  to 
the  ground." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  145 

"Old  Tobin  was  shot  dead,  because  he  refused  to 
give  up  the  keys  of  the  gaol." 

"Ladders  had  been  put  up  against  the  gaol  walls; 
and  fifty  Fenians  had  broken  in  and  rescued   Myles." 

And  so  on.  But  the  daring  escape  and  the  rising 
had  wrought  popular  imagination  up  to  a  high  pitch 
of  excitement  in  the  town;  and  every  minute  seemed 
too  long  until  some  news  should  come  in  about  what 
everyone  felt  would  be  the  momentous  events  of  that 
day. 

In  the  afternoon,  news  began  to  filter  in,  exaggerated 
and  grotesque  as  usual.  "The  Fenians  had  conquered, 
and  routed  the  British  forces,  and  were  now  marching 
on  Limerick."  "The  Fenians  were  beaten  and  scat- 
tered"; "a  battle  was  raging  all  day  on  the  slopes 
of  SUeve  Ruadh,  and  Myles  Cogan  had  done  won- 
ders"; "barracks  were  burned  down  all  over  the 
country,"  etc. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Father  James  strolled  up  to 
the  police  barrack  to  make  inquiries.  The  Serjeant 
took  him  in  to  the  day-room. 

"It  is  against  the  regulations,  Father,"  he  said. 
"But  keep  it  quiet." 

He  pointed  to  a  pink  telegram  that  was  pinned  on 
a  green  baize  cloth,  that  hung  against  the  wall. 

It  ran: 

"Slight  engagement  at  SUeve  Ruadh.  Rebels  fled  at 
first  fire.  One  man,  Halpin,  shot  dead.  Another,  Cogan, 
sent  on  in  irons  to  County  Gaol." 

That  was  all. 

"How,  in  the  name  of  God,  am  I  to  break  it  to  that 
poor  child?"  the  priest  said. 

But  he  did,  gently  and  quietly,  as  God  gave  him 
to  do. 


146  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

The  next  day,  he  had  a  letter  from  his  confrere, 
telling  all,  and  enclosing  the  Uttle  relics,  and  stating 
that  Halpin's  funeral  would  reach  the  town  at  such 
an  hour;  and  he  was  to  be  buried  at  Myles  Cogan's 
request  in  their  plot. 

And  so,  late  the  next  evening,  a  torchlight  procession 
came  up  the  long  street,  the  flare  lighting  up  the  fronts 
of  shop  and  villa  with  its  flickering  red.  Tramp, 
tramp,  went  the  sound  of  many  feet  on  road  and  pave- 
ment, whilst  not  a  sound,  not  even  a  prayer,  was 
whispered  amongst  the  ranks  of  the  mourning  multi- 
tude. The  little  graveyard  was  filled;  and  thousands 
of  faces  were  turned  towards  the  priest,  who,  after 
reciting  the  prayers  for  the  dead,  folded  his  stole,  and, 
whilst  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  said  in  a  broken 
voice: 

"  The  first  act  in  the  latest  drama  in  Ireland  is  over. 
One  brave  man,  with  an  EngUsh  bullet  in  his  breast, 
lies  here  beneath  our  feet.  Another  is  in  irons,  with 
no  prospect  before  him  but  the  scaffold.  It  was  by 
Mr.  Cogan's  orders  that  the  body  of  his  comrade 
should  be  laid  where  their  dust  shall  commingle.  God 
pity  the  living,  as  He  has  had  mercy  on  the  dead." 

He  turned  aside,  when  the  vast  crowd  had  dispersed, 
and,  after  a  silent  prayer,  he  entered  the  Main  Street, 
and  turning  sharply  a  corner  he  passed  into  the  narrow 
lane,  where  Halpin  lodged.  He  found  that  the  poUce 
had  been  before  him;  and  had  ransacked  the  whole 
place,  but  found  nothing.  The  old  fiddle,  and  the  few 
books  they  did  not  touch.     There  were  no  documents. 

"He  left  at  least  one  paper?"  said  the  priest,  inter- 
rogatively. 

"He  did,  your  reverence!  and  here  it  is,"  the  old 
woman  said.     "Sure  I  was  before  them  there.     How 


A  STORY  OF  '67  147 

did  I  know  but  that  it  might  get  Master  Myles  or 
someone  else  into  throuble." 

The  priest  took  it,  looked  at  the  superscription, 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Take  care  of  those  few  things,"  he  said,  "until 
we  know  to  whom  he  has  left  them.  Hallo,  who's 
here?" 

On  the  schoolmaster's  bed,  his  httle  dog.  Bran, 
was  lying.  He  looked  up  at  the  priest  in  a  pitiful 
way,  and  moaned. 

"There  he  is  for  the  last  three  days,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "and  he  won't  titch  bit,  bite,  or  sup  for  me, 
but  moaning  and  groaning.  Don't  tetch  him,  yer 
reverence,  for  I  think  he's  out  of  his  mind!" 

But  the  priest  stroked  the  little  animal  gently, 
rubbing  his  ears,  scratching  his  neck,  and  forehead, 
and  talking  gently  to  him. 

"Get  me  a  drop  of  milk!"  he  said. 

The  woman  brought  the  milk.  The  priest  dipped 
his  fingers  in  it,  and  then  rubbed  them  gently  across 
the  Httle  creature's  lips.  Instinctively,  the  latter  put 
out  his  tongue  and  Ucked  the  priest's  fingers.  But 
at  once  he  turned  aside,  and  would  touch  no  more, 
but  moaned  sadly. 

The  priest  took  him  up  in  his  arms. 

"He  wants  his  master!"  he  said. 

Flinging  a  wing  of  his  cloak  around  the  dog,  he 
went  back  along  the  street  to  the  graveyard.  The 
night  had  fallen,  but  there  was  a  brilliant  March 
moon,  which  shone  on  the  white  desert  of  snow  around 
him.  He  looked  around.  No  one  was  near.  He 
crossed  the  graveyard  to  where  the  dark  grave  of  the 
buried  patriot  showed  black  against  the  snow.  The 
httle  animal,  who  up  to  then  had  shown  scarcely  signs 


148  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

of  life,  leaped  in  his  arms.  He  put  him  down  and 
stood  aside,  leaning  against  a  railing.  The  dog  ran 
round  whimpering,  then  lifting  up  his  head,  he  barked 
furiously,  and  tore  at  the  sods  of  earth  that  covered 
the  grave.  Then  exhausted,  he  lay  down  and  moaned. 
Again  and  again,  he  tried  to  tear  up  the  earth,  only 
to  sink  back  worn  and  half-dead.  The  priest  ap- 
proached to  call  him  away,  but  the  poor  beast  would 
not  stir,  but  lay  with  his  head  against  the  wet  grass, 
which  he  sometimes  hcked  with  his  tongue,  but  always 
moaning.  The  priest  was  about  to  go  away,  hoping  it 
would  follow  him,  when  the  Httle  creature,  in  one  last 
paroxysm  of  affection,  again  attempted  to  tear  up 
the  earth.  After  one  or  two  efforts,  he  rolled  down 
the  slight  mound  and  lay  still  at  the  bottom  in  the 
snow.  The  priest  went  over,  and  called  him  by  his 
name,  and  rubbed  down  his  wet  coat.  But  it  was  in 
vain.     Bran  was  dead  upon  his  master's  grave. 

For  a  long  time  the  priest  looked  on  at  that  mourn- 
ful scene,  and  pondered.  Then,  looking  around,  he 
saw  leaning  up  against  the  huge  trunk  of  a  beech-tree 
a  spade  and  mattock,  which  the  Sexton  had  left  behind. 
Silently,  he  opened  a  few  sods  on  the  top  of  the  Fenian's 
grave,  and  excavated  the  earth  so  as  to  form  a  tiny 
hollow.  There  he  placed  poor  little  Bran,  closed  up 
the  grave  and  replaced  the  sods. 

"The  people  would  never  forgive  me  if  they  knew 
it,"  he  said. 

And  then  he  added: 

"But  God  will!" 


XXII 

Myles  Cogan  was  in  the  dock  in  Limerick  Court- 
house. His  fine  figure  towered  a  Uttle  even  above  the 
stalwart  constables  who  surrounded  him.  The  court 
was  thronged  with  people.  The  Bar  on  both  sides  was 
largely  represented.  The  SoUcitor-General,  Serjeant 
Holloway,  led  the  prosecution.  Isaac  Butt  was  the 
leader  for  the  defence.  The  former  had  pressed  the 
charge  of  treason-felony  against  the  prisoner  without 
venom,  but  with  all  the  zeal  of  one  who  had  got  a  good 
thing  from  the  Government  of  the  country,  and  was 
anxious  to  show  how  he  deserved  it.  The  fine  face  of 
Isaac  Butt  was  bathed  in  tears  when  he  sat  down  after  a 
two  hours'  speech  marked  by  singular  force  and  all  the 
eloquence  of  deep  feeUng.  But  everyone  felt  that 
the  case  was  hopeless,  so  far  as  any  legal  defence  could 
be  made.  The  facts  were  indisputable;  and  the  charge 
of  treason-felony,  of  having  administered  illegal  oaths, 
and  being  taken,  arms  in  hand,  in  open  rebellion 
against  the  constituted  authorities  of  the  country, 
could  not  be  rebutted.  The  Solicitor-General  wound 
up  the  case  for  the  prosecution  in  a  half-careless 
manner,  as  one  quite  sure  of  his  verdict;  and  the 
Judge  addressed  the  Jury  in  a  manner  that  left  no 
hope.     On  the  three  points  submitted  to  the  Jury: 

"  Was  prisoner  a  sworn  member  of  an  illegal  organisa- 
tion, which  had  for  its  object  the  subversion  of  her 
Majesty's  authority  in  this  country? 


150  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"  Had  prisoner  administered  illegal  oaths? 

"Had  prisoner  been  found  in  open  armed  rebellion 
against  the  Crown?  " 

The  verdict  was,  Yes! 

The  usual  question  was  put  to  the  prisoner  by  the 
Clerk  of  the  Crown  and  Peace,  whether  he  had  any- 
thing to  say  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be 
passed  upon  him;  and  Myles,  leaning  forward  a  little, 
said  in  a  modest  tone,  but  in  a  voice  that  could  be 
heard  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  Court: 

''My  Lord, 

"You  ask  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be 
passed  on  me  by  your  Lordship  as  representing  the 
Government  of  England  in  this  country.  From  a 
purely  legal  standpoint,  I  have  no  defence  to  make. 
I  have  deliberately  broken  the  laws  of  this  country 
called  England,  which  claims  supreme  authority  over 
this,  my  country.  That  authority,  I,  following  the 
example  of  thousands  of  my  fellow-countrymen, 
solemnly  repudiate.  I  admit  no  rights  of  conquest, 
nor  can  I  believe  that  a  government,  established 
through  fraud,  rapine,  and  murder,  can  ever  right- 
eously claim  the  allegiance  of  an  unwilhng  people.  It 
might  happen,  perhaps  it  has  happened  in  the  course 
of  human  history,  that  a  conquered  race  has  been 
brought,  by  the  operation  of  just  and  kindly  laws,  to 
acknowledge  the  suzerainty  of  the  power  that  sub- 
dued it.  But  six  hundred  years  of  domination  are 
assuredly  a  fair  trial;  and  I  need  not  remind  your 
Lordship  and  the  Court  that  today  the  Irish  people 
are  as  opposed  to  English  power  in  this  country  as 
when  Strongbow  and  Ireton  brought  their  mailed 
warriors,  or  rather  filibusterers,  to  dethrone  our  Irish 
kings  and  bring  them  under  the  heel  of  the  Plantag- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  151 

enets.  That  fact  alone  is  a  final  verdict  against  the 
righteousness  of  English  domination  in  Ireland.  There 
is  no  appeal  from  the  voice  of  a  nation." 

The  Judge  murmured  something  to  the  effect  that 
he  was  traveUing  outside  the  question  and  talking 
treason.     Myles  continued  smilingly: 

"The  sentiment,  or  rather  the  principle,  is  not  mine, 
my  Lord.  At  this  moment  some  EngUsh  papers  are 
using  stronger  language  to  stir  up  the  discontented 
elements  in  Italy  against  the  Pope;  English  money 
is  largely  spent  in  purchasing  arms  and  ammunition 
for  SiciUan  and  Sardinian  rebels;  and  Mazzini  and 
Garibaldi,  who  stand  exactly  in  the  same  position 
with  regard  to  their  government  that  I  and  my  com- 
rades occupy  towards  England,  are  the  guests  of 
English  ministers  and  the  petted  darlings  of  London 
drawing-rooms.  But  where  is  the  use  of  talking  of 
consistency,  when  dealing  with  politics,  where  there 
is  neither  conscience  nor  morals,  but  brutal  cynicism 
on  the  one  hand,  and  facile  compromise  on  the  other? 
Therefore,  I  have  no  defence  to  make.  I  c^m  face  to 
face  with  a  power  that  is  as  irresistible  as  it  is  unfor- 
giving. I  could  appeal  to  honour,  to  patriotism,  to 
virtue,  as  justifying  causes  for  our  rebellion  against 
a  power  we  never  acknowledged;  but  the  walls  of  this 
Court  would  echo  back  the  words  in  vain.  An  Itahan 
rebel  might  use  them,  and  be  applauded  for  them. 
But  an  Irish  rebel  must  not  utter  such  things;  and 
therefore,  he  is  left  without  defence  in  the  hands  of  a 
power  that  is  arbitrary,  and  an  Executive  that  is  merci- 
less. But  the  Sohcitor-General,  in  his  zeal,  made  one 
remark  which  touches  my  personal  honour,  and  with 
which  I  must  be  permitted  to  deal.  In  language 
which  seemed  meant  to  flatter,  but  which  in  reaUty  was 


152  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

a  deadly  insult,  he  said  that  my  dead  comrade  and  I, 
being  men  of  better  education  than  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  Fenian  brotherhood,  stood  doubly  guilty  not 
only  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  but  before  all  honourable 
men,  in  having  inveigled  poor,  helpless,  ignorant 
mechanics  and  labourers  into  criminal  courses  which 
we  foreknew  must  mean  absolute  ruin  to  them.  If  it 
were  true,  no  language,  I  admit,  could  be  too  strong 
to  condemn  such  perfidy.  But  I  fear  the  learned 
gentleman  is  deceived  by  his  own  experience;  and, 
like  so  many  more,  he  has  judged  the  heart  of  the 
nation  by  the  feeble  and  languid  pulse  that  beats 
only  for  gold.  He  has  felt  the  palms  of  men  itch- 
ing for  the  bribes  that  were  to  steal  away  their  con- 
sciences. He  has  never  seen  the  fingers  that  closed 
over  the  pike  and  the  musket,  even  though  the  pike 
and  the  musket  meant  death  to  themselves.  And  so 
far  from  inveighng  these  brave  men  into  dangerous 
courses,  and  playing  on  their  ignorance,  I  assure  this 
court,  and  through  this  court  the  country,  that  I  and 
my  comrade  pointed  out,  again  and  again,  not  only 
the  dangers,  but  even  the  hopelessness  of  our  enter- 
prise, only  to  be  met  by  a  shout  of  scorn,  and  the  dark 
suspicion  that  we  ourselves  were  traitors  and  cowards. 
No,  my  Lord,  it  was  by  no  action  of  ours  those  thou- 
sands of  labourers  and  artisans  went  out  on  the  hillside 
that  awful  night  last  March,  every  man  prepared  to 
face  death  on  the  field  and  the  scaffold,  not  for  gold 
or  silver,  not  for  a  shce  of  bogland  or  mountain,  but 
for  that  glorious  dream  that  has  haunted  the  imagina- 
tion of  our  race,  and  which  will  continue  to  haunt  it 
so  long  as  a  fringe  of  foam  circles  her  coasts,  and  the 
winds  sing  up  along  her  valleys  —  the  honour  and  the 
freedom  of  their  country.     And  I  tell  you,  that  we 


A  STORY  OF  '67  153 

might  as  well  have  hoped  to  stop  a  prairie  fire,  or  hurl 
back  the  surges  of  the  Atlantic,  as  to  induce  these 
poor  fellows  to  lay  down  their  rude  arms,  until  at  least 
they  were  tested  once  in  open  field  with  the  enemies  and 
despots  of  their  country  — " 

"I  have  allowed  you  enormous  latitude,"  said  the 
Judge,  "because  you  say  that  you  were  only  rebutting 
a  charge  upon  your  personal  honour  made  by  the 
SoUcitor-General;  but  you  are  seizing  the  opportunity 
for  making  a  pohtical  and  inflammatory  address." 

"I  am  but  defending  my  own  honour,  my  Lord," 
said  Myles,  "and,  what  is  dearer  to  me,  the  honour  of 
the  brave  men  who  were  associated  with  me." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  applause  in  Court,  which 
was  suppressed;  and  the  Judge  made  a  sign  to  Myles 
to  proceed. 

"I  have  little  more  to  add,"  said  the  latter.  "But 
let  me  meet  at  once  the  objection,  that  even  if  our 
attempted  revolution  could  have  been  justified  by  moral 
and  political  reasons,  it  stands  condemned  on  my 
own  admission,  by  reason  of  the  impossibility  of  its 
success.  But  what  is  success?  Did  we  —  I  mean, 
my  comrade,  Halpin  and  I  —  dream  of  wresting  Ire- 
land from  the  grip  of  English  domination,  and  making 
her  one  of  the  great  powers  of  the  earth?  No!  Did 
we  hope  to  see  her  taking  her  place  in  the  van  of  civili- 
sation; and  showing  the  unbeheving  world  what 
tremendous  resources  lay  hidden  here,  untried  and 
undeveloped?  No.  Did  we  dream  of  seeing  one 
day  Irish  men  of  war  riding  at  anchor  in  her  harbours; 
and  Irish  horse  and  foot  camped  in  the  Curragh? 
Certainly  not!  What  then?  What  did  we  hope  for? 
What  did  we  dream  of?  The  Solicitor-General 
knows." 


154  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

That  learned  gentleman  looked  up  in  amazement; 
and  the  eyes  of  the  Court  were  directed  towards  him. 

"The  learned  gentleman,"  Myles  went  on,  "has 
personal  experience  of  how  low  a  people,  or  rather  a 
section  of  a  people,  may  fall,  when  the  vital  spark  of 
nationhood  has  been  extinguished,  and  there  remains 
but  the  corrupting  influence  of  self.  When  that  takes 
place,  a  nation  sinks  into  a  condition  somewhat  like 
unto  the  decomposition  of  a  body  from  which  the  spirit 
has  departed;  and  bribery,  corruption,  the  selling  of 
votes  and  the  selling  of  souls  take  the  place  of  all  those 
stirring  and  vitalising  influences  that  constitute  the 
life  of  a  nation.  Now,  when  that  fatal  moment  arrives, 
nothing  can  stop  the  dread  process  of  national  decom- 
position except  the  shedding  of  blood.  I  shall  not  tres- 
pass on  the  Sf  .red  precincts  of  religion  to  illustrate 
my  meaning.  1  shall  only  say  that  as  the  blood  of 
the  martyrs  w^as  the  seed  of  saints,  so  the  blood  of  the 
patriot  is  the  sacred  seed  from  which  alone  can  spring 
new  forces,  and  fresh  life  into  :i  nation  that  is  drifting 
into  the  putrescence  of  decay.  And  if  I  needed  proof 
of  this,  I  have  it  at  hand  in  the  example  of  the  brave 
man  who  died  in  my  arms.  A  poor,  half-bhnd,  humble 
schoolmaster,  hardly  known  in  the  place  where  he 
taught  and  laboured,  gave  his  life  for  his  country; 
and  behold!  his  remains  have  had  royal  obsequies; 
and  the  very  men,  who  had  polluted  their  hands  with 
bribes  and  who  had  dragged  the  triumphal  chariot 
of  the  Solicitor-General  through  their  town,  raised 
the  coffin  of  the  dead  patriot  on  their  shoulders  and  bore 
him,  amidst  the  sobs  and  weeping  of  thousands  of  men 
and  women,  to  his  last  honourable  place  in  the  very 
town  where  his  name  was  hardly  known.  And  in  years 
to  come,  in  centuries  to  come.   Irishmen  will  travel 


A  STORY  OF   '67  155 

across  the  seas  to  see  the  spot  where  he  died,  to  pluck 
a  shamrock  that  may  have  sprung  from  his  blood,  to 
cut  a  relic  from  the  tree  beneath  which  he  fell.  That 
is  his  justification,  if  justification  were  needed  —  the 
verdict  of  his  race,  which  has  transformed  a  humble 
but  noble  soul  into  a  hero;  which  has  transformed 
itself  under  the  magic  of  such  an  example  from  a  race 
of  time-serving,  self-seeking  sycophants  into  a  nation 
of  unselfish  and  self-sacrificing  patriots.  And  the 
same  justification  I  claim  for  myself.  I  have  not  had, 
although  I  sought  it,  the  privilege  of  dying  by  his 
side,  and  saying  with  him:  'I  am  happier  than  Sars- 
field,  because  this  blood  is  shed  for  Ireland.'  But  no 
true  Irishman  sees  a  distinction  between  the  battle- 
field and  the  scaflfold.  Both  are  the  fields  of  honour 
for  our  race  — " 

There  was  a  mighty  shout  of  approbation  from  the 
crowds  that  filled  the  Court,  and  it  was  not  easily 
suppressed. 

Then  Myles  added: 

"I  have  no  more  to  say.  My  earthly  fate  is  in 
your  Lordship's  hands.  My  eternal  Destiny  lies 
with  God.  I  leave  my  name  and  memory  with  con- 
fidence to  my  countrymen!" 

There  was  another  murmur  of  applause,  which  was 
succeeded  by  dead  silence  as  the  Judge  proceeded  to 
pronounce  sentence. 

"  Myles  Cogan,  you  have  been  convicted,  on  evidence 
that  was  indisputable,  of  the  gravest  crime  that  can 
be  committed  by  a  citizen  against  his  country.  All 
human  safety,  and,  therefore,  all  human  progress, 
depend  on  the  stability  of  government.  There  can  be 
no  security  for  Ufe  or  property  where  that  stability 
can   be   shaken.     The   specious   arguments   you   have 


156  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

adduced  to  justify  your  attempt  to  subvert  the  govern- 
ment of  this  country  fall  dead  before  the  main  conten- 
tion, that  if  such  principles  were  once  admitted,  no 
government,  no  matter  how  long  estabhshed,  could 
be  deemed  secure;  and  the  efforts  of  all  honourable 
citizens  would  be  paralysed  before  the  perpetual 
spectre  of  anarchy.  It  would  be  idle  for  me  to  enter 
into  an  argument  as  to  the  attitude  of  the  British 
Press  towards  questions  of  European  politics.  Nor 
can  I  take  notice,  as  a  reasonable  and  justifying  cause 
of  your  rebeUion  against  the  Sovereign  of  these  realms, 
of  that  visionary  and  foolish  theory  of  shedding  blood 
for  the  purpose  of  purifying  public  hfe.  Modern 
civilisation  refuses  to  accept  such  theories  and  prefers 
to  work  along  more  sober  and  rational  lines.  I  regret 
deeply  to  see  a  young  man  of  much  abihty  and  edu- 
cation, whose  life  might  have  been  one  of  great  honour 
to  himself  and  utihty  to  society,  placed  in  the  tragical 
circumstances  in  which  you  now  appear  before  your 
country.  I  can  make  every  allowance  for  the  hot- 
headedness  of  youth,  and  the  tendency  to  rush  after 
phantoms  of  a  disordered  imagination;  but,  when 
such  folhes  become  a  source  of  peril  to  the  nation, 
when  they  unloose  the  bonds  of  society,  break  down 
that  sense  of  security  on  which  alone  progress  and 
prosperity  are  based,  and  threaten  to  fling  back  a 
peaceable  country  into  the  agonies  of  anarchy,  then 
the  strong  arm  of  the  law  must  be  invoked,  and  the 
punishment  meted  out  must  be  made  not  only  com- 
mensurate with  the  crime  committed,  but  also  of  such 
a  nature  that  it  shall  act  as  a  deterrent  to  others  from 
embarking  on  such  evil  courses.  And  therefore," 
said  the  Judge,  assuming  the  black  cap,  "the  sentence 
of  this  Court  is  that  you,  Myles  Cogan,  be  taken  from 


A  STORY  OF  '67  157 

this  Court  to  the  place  wherein  you  have  hitherto  been 
detained;  and  thence,  on  the  23rd  day  of  September 
to  the  place  of  execution;  and  there  hanged  by  the 
neck  until  you  are  dead  —  and  —  and  — " 

Here  the  Judge  broke  down,  and  tearing  off  the 
black  cap,  he  rushed  hastily  from  the  bench. 

In  an  instant  a  crowd  of  young  men  dashed  up  the 
stairs  that  led  on  to  the  witness-table,  and  from  there 
and  from  the  body  of  the  Court  a  hundred  eager  hands 
were  wildly  stretched  to  grasp  those  of  the  young 
patriot;  but  the  warders  closed  around  their  prisoner, 
and  led  him  down  the  stairs  to  the  cells.  A  wild  shout 
of  "Farewell,"  "We'll  never  forget  you,"  echoed 
dimly  through  the  doors  and  passages;  and  the  outer 
world  closed  its  gates  on  the  brave  young  Irishman. 


XXIII 

Yet  the  world  went  on  as  usual.  The  selfish  wrapped 
themselves  up  in  their  own  warm  and  padded  safety, 
and  when  they  could  do  so  with  impunity,  they  used 
strong  language  towards  rebels  and  revolutionaries. 
People  who  have  business  in  banks  object  to  changes 
of  every  kind,  as  change  means  always  insecurity;  and 
to  such,  no  punishment  could  be  too  great  for  wild, 
young  revolutionaries,  who  in  the  heat  and  irresponsi- 
bihty  of  immature  years,  want  to  stake  everything 
on  a  single  chance.  But,  deep  down  in  the  hearts  of 
the  poor,  and  the  toiler  and  the  worker;  in  the  souls 
of  young  maidens,  who  love  the  chivalrous  and  the 
ideal,  and  mothers,  who  feel  for  all  that  suffers  and  is 
lost;  and  in  the  hot  breasts  of  the  young,  who  adore 
bravery,  and  worship  in  the  track  of  the  patriot,  there 
was  many  a  heart-throb  of  sympathy  for  the  brave 
young  soldier,  who  had  thrown  up  all  the  happiness 
and  success  of  life,  and  staked  all,  even  hfe,  for  his 
country. 

The  good  priest  during  these  days  had  much  to  do. 
Crowds  of  young  fellows  were  in  gaol  awaiting  trial; 
and  no  one  knew  whether  they  would  be  tried  on  the 
capital  charge  of  treason-felony,  or  on  some  minor 
charge,  which  might  mean  but  a  few  months'  imprison- 
ment. But  they  had  to  be  defended,  and  a  defence 
meant  money;  and  funds  had  to  be  raised  to  pay 
clever  advocates,    and   bring   up   witnesses   and  save 


A  STORY  OF  '67  159 

them,  if  possible.  And  Father  James  was  head  and 
front  of  everything.  He  visited  the  poor  fellows  in 
prison,  cheered  them  up,  and  found  them,  to  his 
surprise,  more  eager  to  suffer  than  to  be  released. 

"As  we  couldn't  do  anything  for  Ireland  on  the 
field,"  they  said,  "at  least  we  can  suffer  for  her." 

He  explained  the  sufferings. 

"No  matter!  If  we  are  left  free  now,  with  Halpin 
dead,  and  Myles  Cogan  on  the  scaffold,  we  would  be 
eternally  disgraced." 

He  had  to  leave  them  alone,  merely  securing  the 
best  legal  succour  in  his  power. 

More  difficult  was  his  task  in  reconciling  the  poor 
bereaved  sister,  Agnes  Cogan,  to  her  brother's  fate. 
Woman  sees  only  the  beloved  one.  When  he  is  in 
danger,  the  transcendental  and  sublime  cannot  console 
her.  It  is  doubtful  whether  that  saying  of  the  Spartan 
mother:  "Come  back  with  your  shield,  or  upon 
it,"  is  not  legendary;  and  so,  all  the  praises  that  were 
showered  on  the  young  patriots,  all  the  prayers  that 
were  offered  on  their  behalf,  could  not  reconcile  the 
poor  girl  to  the  idea  of  her  beloved  brother  suffering 
a  violent  and  premature  death.  She  was  too  weak 
after  weeks  of  long  prostration  to  make  any  decided 
effort  in  his  behalf;  but  she  wrote  a  letter  that  would 
have  touched  the  heart  of  Herod,  to  the  SoUcitor- 
General;  he  replied  officially  and  cautiously,  but, 
without  giving  a  gleam  of  hope.  And  the  dread  morn- 
ing of  the  execution  was  approaching. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Government  had  no  idea 
of  proceeding  to  extremities.  They  might  have  had  no 
scruples  in  hanging  a  half-dozen  young  rebels;  but 
there  is  a  saying  that  has  sunk  deep  into  the  minds 
of  English  statesmen: 


160  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"//  you  want  to  keep  nationality  alive  in  Ireland,  you 
must  hang  five  or  six  rebels  every  ten  or  fifteen  years." 

The  mighty  magic  of  the  scaffold  lasts  just  so  long; 
and  then  dies  away  into  the  prose  and  commonplace 
of  the  eating,  drinking,  marrying,  workaday  world,  until 
the  folly  of  making  martyrs  seizes  on  our  rulers  again. 

During  those  eventful  days,  the  condition  of  Mary 
Carleton's  health  became  a  matter  of  serious  concern 
to  her  parents.  She  appeared  to  droop  away  from 
the  robust  energies  of  a  young  and  healthy  girl  into 
a  condition  that  pointed  to  early  decline  and  death. 
From  the  day  in  which  Myles  Cogan  was  sentenced,  she 
seemed  to  sink  more  and  more,  until  at  last  it  was 
determined  that  to  save  her  life  she  should  go  abroad. 
This  was  all  the  more  embarrassing  because  Kendall 
was  now  pressing  his  suit  with  greater  ardour  than 
ever;  and  it  was  warmly  seconded  by  the  girl's  parents. 
But  she  held  back,  refusing  to  give  a  final  answer  from 
day  to  day,  pleading  health  and  other  causes,  which 
were  only  too  palpable. 

On  the  day  when  the  reprieve  arrived  from  Dublin, 
commuting  Myles  Cogan's  sentence  to  penal  servitude 
for  life,  Kendall  called  as  usual.  He  was  annoyed 
and  wrathful,  because  the  young  fierce  rebel  was 
spared;  and  he  expressed  his  annoyance  without  con- 
cealment. 

"This  Government  of  ours  is  altogether  too  lenient," 
he  said,  after  a  few  preliminaries.  "They  are  too 
squeamish.  I  don't  know  what  influences  have  been 
at  work;  but  they  have  done  a  most  foolish  thing  in 
reprieving  Cogan  — " 

"Myles  Cogan  reprieved?"  said  Mary  Carleton, 
and  then  fell  into  a  dead  faint. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  161 

"I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  that  girl,"  said 
her  mother,  returning  to  the  drawing-room;  "of  course 
'tis  her  concern  for  the  poor  sister,  who  naturally  is 
heartbroken.  But  that  won't  account  for  her  constant 
ill-health.     She  must  go  away ! " 

"They  asked  my  opinion,  of  course,"  said  Rendall, 
as  if  not  heeding,  "and  I  gave  it  to  them  candidly.  I 
told  them  that  the  insurrection  was  killed;  but  it 
might  revive  again.  And  nothing  could  revive  it  but 
the  inflammatory  speeches  of  such  harebrained  fools 
as  Cogan." 

Mr.  Carleton  came  in. 

"Young  Cogan  is  reprieved,"  said  his  wife.  "Mr. 
Rendall  has  just  called  to  tell  us.  Mary  was  so 
upset  about  that  poor  girl  that  she  had  a  slight 
faint." 

"Cogan  reprieved!"  said  Edward  Carleton.  "What 
do  you  think  of  it,  Rendall?" 

"Badly!"  said  Rendall.  "It  means  a  few  years  in 
gaol;  then  a  big  row  about  amnesty;  then  a  weak 
government  giving  in;  and  those  fire-brands  are  flung 
back  amongst  us  again," 

"But,  after  all,  he  is  young!"  said  Edward  Carleton, 
"and  his  father  was  a  decent  sort  of  fellow.  A  little 
vulgar;  but  he  paid  his  way." 

"Oh,  I  have  no  prejudice  against  the  young  fool," 
said  Rendall.  "In  fact,  I  think  I  hardly  ever  saw 
him.  But,  where  the  public  safety  is  concerned,  no 
precautions  can  be  too  great.  Think  of  all  we've  gone 
through  these  last  few  months;  and  imagine  it  all  over 
again!" 

"But,  after  all,  hanging  is  a  serious  matter — " 

"Very  —  for  the  Culprit!"  said  Rendall,  who  was 
in  an  unamiable  mood. 


162  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"I  know  —  I  know!"  said  Carleton.  "But,  if  a 
fellow  is  locked  up  for  life,  he  cannot  do  harm!" 

"No!  If  he  is  locked  up  for  life!"  said  Kendall. 
"But  I  have  seen  things;  and  I  know  that  in  five 
years  Cogan  will  be  out  again;  and  hard  at  work  as  ever 
at  mischief-making!" 

"I'll  just  run  to  see  how's  Mary!"  said  her  father. 
And  Rendall  took  the  opportunity  of  saying: 

"If  we  could  only  get  Miss  Carleton  to  say.  Yes! 
I  would  get  six  weeks'  leave  of  absence;  and  I  could 
take  her  abroad  to  the  Riviera." 

"Ah,  yes!"  sighed  the  mother.  "If  we  could  only 
bring  her  to  reason." 

"Allow  me  to  ask  you  one  question,"  said  Rendall, 
now  very  serious,  and  almost  combative,  "do  you  think, 
Mrs.  Carleton,  that  Mary,  Miss  Carleton,  had  any 
secret  liking  for  this  young  fellow  Cogan?" 

"Impossible!"  said  Mrs.  Carleton,  almost  angrily. 
"Quite  impossible!  Mary  would  not  demean  herself 
by  thinking  of  the  son  of  a  mere  shopkeeper  and  miller. 
How  could  you  have  thought  it?" 

"Well,  indeed,  I  am  ashamed  of  having  harboured  the 
thought.  In  fact,  I  thought  it  was  the  other  way.  Do 
you  know  —  did  I  ever  tell  you,  that  it  was  on  Miss 
Carleton's  suggestion  I  arrested  Cogan  last  winter?" 

"On  Mary's  suggestion?"  said  her  mother. 

"Yes!  She  asked  me  as  a  favour  to  have  Cogan 
arrested,  and  put  away!" 

"Wonders  will  never  cease!"  said  Mrs.  Carleton. 
"And  she  so  intimate  with  his  sister!  Are  you  quite 
sure,  Mr.  Rendall?" 

"Quite.  She  saw  me  to  the  door  one  evening,  and 
asked  me  to  do  her  a  favour.  I  said,  of  course!  The 
favour  was  to  have  Cogan  promptly  arrested." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  163 

"That  accounts  for  her  emotion  now!"  said  Mrs. 
Carleton  after  a  pause.  "She  must  have  conceived 
some  violent  dislike  for  the  fellow;  probably,  he 
might  have  presumed  to  approach  her  with  an  offer 
of  marriage!  That's  just  it!  And  now,  she  fears 
that  the  same  thing  will  recur,  but  —  well,  Edward, 
how  is  she?" 

"Better,  I  think!  But  we  must  get  her  away  at 
once.  The  Doctor  says  that  those  dark  circles  under 
the  eyes  and  those  blue  lips  foretell  heart  affections." 

"I  had  been  saying  to  Mrs.  Carleton,"  said  Kendall, 
"before  you  came  in,  that  if  Mary  would  only  grant 
me  my  wish,  and  your  wishes,  I  could  get  six  weeks' 
leave,  and  would  carry  her  off  to  the  Riviera.  A  few 
weeks  at  Cannes  or  Cap  St.  Martin,  away  from  all  this 
excitement,  would  re-establish  her  health,  and  make 
me,"  the  officer  almost  sobbed,  "a  happy  man!" 

"Well,  look  here,  Kendall,"  said  the  man  of  law, 
"you  know  we  cannot  force  Mary's  consent.  Young 
ladies  nowadays  have  their  own  opinions,  and  are 
determined  to  act  upon  them  — " 

"I  would  not  accept  Miss  Carleton's  hand,  unless 
it  was  freely  given,"  said  Kendall. 

"Quite  right!  There's  no  use  in  laying  up  a  life- 
time of  disappointment.  Well,  it  all  comes  to  this. 
Tomorrow  morning,  —  Mary  will  be  herself  then  — 
I  shall  broach  the  matter  to  her,  leaving  her  absolutely 
free.  Perhaps  you  would  call  in  the  afternoon;  and 
I  shall  let  you  know  her  decision." 

"Thanks  ever  so  much!"  said  Kendall.  "You  can- 
not do  any  more.  I  await  my  fate  with  anxiety  and 
hope!" 

In  the  morning,  Mary  Carleton  was  much  better. 
Was  it  that   night's   rest,   which   had  smoothed  out 


164  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

those  lines  that  were  gathering  around  her  mouth; 
and  brought  a  little  colour  to  her  lips  and  cheeks,  and 
put  a  certain  lustre  in  her  eyes?  And  tell  it  not  in 
Ascalon,  Mary  Carleton  did  eat  a  fairly  good  break- 
fast, and  seemed  eager  to  see  the  papers,  and  read  all 
about  that  reprieve  of  the  young  rebel.  And,  when 
her  good  father,  approaching  the  subject  in  much  fear 
and  trembling  that  afternoon,  and  after  many  a  round- 
about sentence,  did  lay  Kendall's  proposal  as  an 
ultimatum  and  final  appeal  before  her,  he  was  thunder- 
struck to  hear,  after  the  long  silence  in  which  she  bore 
his  eloquence,  a  modest  and  almost  whispered,  Yes! 

Mark  how  swiftly  our  little  preliminary  Acts  of  the 
Drama  are  progressing.  Halpin  dead;  Agnes  Cogan, 
a  derelict,  weak  and  helpless;  Mary  Carleton,  the 
afiianced  of  the  thrice  fortunate  Rendall,  with  a  long 
vista  of  Rivieras  and  happy  marriage  years  before 
her.     And  Myles  Cogan,  — 

Yes!  Just  at  seven  o'clock,  at  the  very  moment 
that  Rendall  was  first  to  hear  of  his  happiness  from 
his  future  father-in-law,  and  then  from  the  lips  of  his 
affianced  bride,  Myles  Cogan,  in  his  convict-garb, 
grey  frieze,  marked  all  over  with  red  arrows,  and  hand- 
cuffed to  another  convict,  was  standing  on  the  North 
Mall  Quay  in  Dublin,  awaiting  the  orders  to  step  on 
board  a  steamer,  that  had  now  been  converted  into  a 
floating  prison.  There  were  ten  or  eleven  other  prison- 
ers with  him;  a  posse  of  police,  fully  armed,  stood  to 
attention  near  the  wall;  officers,  with  their  hands  on 
revolvers,  walked  up  and  down,  looking  anxiously 
around;  outside  the  station,  fifty  dragoons  with  drawn 
sabres  rattled  their  horses'  bridles,  and  a  company  of 
infantry  leaned  on  their  rifles.     Then  the  last  whistle 


A  STORY  OF  '67  165 

was  sounded.  The  convicts  were  marched  on  board. 
A  strong  guard  followed.  Down  the  steep  steps  of 
the  steamer  the  convicts  were  driven  unceremoniously; 
deeper  down  they  trod  in  darkness  the  iron  steps, 
until  at  last  they  reached  the  hold  of  the  vessel.  Here 
they  were  invited  to  sleep,  if  they  pleased,  on  rude 
bunks,  lined  with  straw.  There  was  not  a  ray  of 
light;  only  the  throb  of  the  engines,  and  the  vibration 
of  the  steamer,  told  them  that  they  were  leaving  their 
native  land.     Some,  alas!  for  ever. 


XXIV 

On  a  summer  evening  some  years  later,  a  gang  of 
convicts  were  out  on  the  moor,  that  stretched  like  a 
dreary  and  desolate  sea  around  the  village  of  Prince- 
town.  They  had  been  dispersed  at  work  for  a  few 
hours,  when  one  of  those  sudden  wet  fogs  that  are  so 
common,  even  in  the  hottest  weather,  in  Dartmoor, 
gloomed  down,  and  the  sharp,  stern  order  came  from 
the  warders  to  close  in.  As  they  did,  one  seemed  to 
straggle  a  little  behind;  and,  taking  advantage  of  his 
momentary  isolation,  the  warder  said: 

"Don't  turn  round,  Cogan,  nor  speak." 

The  convict  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then 
stooped  down  as  if  to  tie  his  shoes. 

"Why  the  devil  do  you  notice  that  fellow?"  said  the 
warder.     "He'll  drive  you  mad!" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  the  convict,  "and  then  I  can  send 
him  to  hell." 

"Close  up.  March  forward!"  said  the  warder. 
And  Myles  Cogan  joined  the  rear  line  of  the  gang,  and 
strode  forward  like  the  rest. 

Yes,  it  was  our  friend,  Myles,  and  the  language 
shows  the  awful  state  of  desperation  to  which  he  had 
been  driven. 

The  discipline  at  Dartmoor,  very  stern  and  unbend- 
ing, is  not  ruthless.  The  work  was  severe  and  such 
as  is  usually  performed  by  beasts  of  burden;  but  the 
health  of  the  prisoners  was  well  cared  for;  and  there 
was   a  good   deal   of  consideration    shown  the   men, 


A  STORY  OF  '67  167 

except  in  cases  of  insubordination.  There  was  no 
mercy  there.  The  convict  who  embarked  on  a  course 
of  contumacy,  created  for  himself  a  hell.  Hence, 
clever  and  experienced  convicts  who  knew  how  to 
ingratiate  themselves  with  the  officers  had  pleasant 
times.  The  hot-blooded,  proud,  and  perhaps  honour- 
able men  had  a  bad  time.  They  could  not  brook 
insults;  and  it  was  part  of  the  programme  that  insults 
should  come.  But  if  on  the  whole  the  discipline  was 
merciful  enough,  it  was  not  so  with  the  many  Fenian 
prisoners  who  thronged  the  gaols  of  England  at  this 
time.  In  some  way,  caused,  of  course,  by  the  panic  of 
great  fear,  accentuated  by  the  flaming  articles  of  news- 
papers, these  poor  Fenians,  mostly  hard-working,  honest 
artisans  and  labourers,  were  reputed  to  be  as  sangui- 
nary and  lawless  as  Russian  Nihilists,  or  the  com- 
munists of  1870.  And  their  lot  was  a  hard  one, 
therefore.  The  iron  grip  of  the  law  closed  mercilessly 
around  them;  and  the  ofiicials,  regarding  them  as 
desperadoes,  and  full  of  fear  of  some  nameless  and 
imaginary  outrages,  used  all  the  stern  machinery  of 
prison  discipline  to  crush  and  subdue  them. 

Myles  Cogan,  who  entered  Dartmoor  prison  under 
the  character  of  a  fierce  and  lawless  criminal,  began 
very  soon  to  experience  this.  At  first,  he  was  set  to 
perform  the  most  menial  offices  for  the  other  convicts; 
and  although  his  sense  of  decency  and  innate  refine- 
ment revolted  at  the  horrid  tasks  set  him,  he  obeyed 
without  a  murmur.  Then  he  was  set  to  heavier,  but 
less  repulsive,  work,  such  as  being  harnessed  with 
fifteen  or  twenty  prisoners  to  a  cart,  which  was  laden 
with  several  tons  of  granite,  and  which  had  to  be 
dragged  up  the  steep  gradient  from  the  quarry,  and 
thence  to  where  new  buildings  were  in  progress.     It 


168  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

was  killing  work;  but  his  strength  as  yet  was  not 
undermined,  and  there  was  a  certain  decency  about 
this  class  of  labour  compared  with  the  internal  work  of 
the  prison.  The  warders,  too,  were  not  considerate, 
watching  him  carefully  as  a  desperate  character,  who 
might  at  any  time  blow  the  colossal  prison  to  fragments 
with  dynamite.  Hence  he  was  subjected  to  the  gross 
humiliation  of  frequent  searchings,  carried  out  without 
the  slightest  regard  to  decency  or  reverence  of  his 
person.  From  these  ordeals,  he  came  back  to  his  cell 
with  flaming  eyes  and  dilated  nostrils.  But  perhaps 
the  worst  thing  he  had  to  bear  during  some  months  of 
his  prison  life  was  the  dread  association  on  Sunday 
mornings  with  the  lowest  criminals  in  the  recreation 
grounds  after  Mass.  To  step  out  from  the  holy  place, 
where  he  had  witnessed,  with  profound  love  and  rever- 
ence, the  awful  mysteries  of  his  faith;  to  feel  that 
glow  of  the  heart  which  sweet  solemn  music  and  the 
explanation  of  Christian  doctrine  as  enunciated  from 
the  pulpit  creates;  and  then,  in  a  moment  to  feel  an 
arm  passed  through  his,  and  to  look  into  the  face  of  a 
reprieved  murderer  or  burglar;  to  have  to  listen,  as 
they  moved  around,  arm  in  arm,  to  a  Cockney  voice 
narrating,  with  gusto,  the  story  of  some  abominable 
crime,  or  to  have  to  hear  ribald  talk,  and  sometimes 
blasphemous  comments  on  the  sacred  mysteries  of  the 
faith  that  was  so  dear  to  him,  —  this  was  the  cruellest 
punishment  of  all  this  brave  young  fellow  had  to  bear. 
Then  his  aloofness,  his  refinement,  his  badly-concealed 
disgust  of  his  fellow-prisoners  became  known;  and 
in  the  thousand  and  one  ways  whereby  lower  natures 
can  torment  their  fellows,  Myles  was  made  to  feel  that 
there  was  a  coalition  of  convicts  and  officers  against 
him,   which  boded  ill  for  his  welfare  in  this  prison. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  169 

Slowly,  slowly,  the  dread  miasma  of  the  gaol,  unre- 
lieved by  a  particle  of  human  sympathy,  crept  down 
into  his  soul,  and  after  eight  or  nine  months,  his 
spirits  sank,  and  he  became  a  gloomy  and  morose, 
and  therefore,  in  the  eyes  of  the  officials,  a  doubly 
dangerous  prisoner.  The  very  aspect  of  the  place, 
too,  weighed  on  his  spirits.  In  Portland,  there  was  at 
least  a  variety  of  scene,  —  the  sea  with  its  eternal  and 
ever-changing  beauty  neutralising  the  horrid  monotony 
of  the  chalk  cliffs  and  limestone  quarries.  Then  the 
fleet  sometimes  anchored  off  the  Bill  of  Portland;  and 
flags  waved,  and  guns  sounded  a  salute;  and  some- 
times the  sweet,  far-off  sounds  of  a  band  playing  at 
the  officers'  mess,  came  as  tokens  of  civilisation  to 
men  surrounded  with  every  aspect  of  barbarism.  But 
in  Dartmoor  none  of  those  human  and  consolatory 
incidents  took  place.  Nature  showed  herself  in  her 
worst  and  most  barbaric  aspect,  —  grey  moorland, 
on  which  the  sun  never  seemed  to  rest,  but  to  be  wafted 
away  across  bog  and  tor  by  the  fierce  winds  that  swept 
down  from  the  Bristol  Channel,  or  up  from  the  Atlantic 
across  the  wastes  of  Cornwall;  grey  skies,  always 
swooping  down  on  the  low  uplands  and  wrapping 
them  in  their  own  melancholy  colours;  and  there  in 
the  midst  of  that  most  sombre  and  depressing  land- 
scape was  England's  fortress-prison,  its  grey  granite 
walls,  pierced  by  windows  that  perhaps  gave  a  little 
light  to  its  interior,  but  never  allowed  a  human  eye 
to  penetrate  beyond  the  massive  ugliness  of  the  exterior- 
Mother  Nature,  sour  and  repellent;  human  nature, 
sordid  and  degraded,  — such  were  the  sad  environments 
of  our  lonely  prisoner. 

Yet  it  was  not  altogether  intolerable,  until  he  was 
brought  into  contact  with  one  of  those  base  creatures 


170  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA  , 

who,  possessed  of  momentary  power,  seem  delighted  to 
use  it  for  malevolent  purposes. 

The  old  prison  doctor  had  retired  on  pension  a  few 
weeks  before;  and  his  place  was  taken  by  a  North  of 
Ireland  man,  a  bigot  of  an  advanced  type.  Religious 
and  political  prejudices  envenomed  him  from  the  very 
beginning  against  the  Fenian  prisoners;  and  especially 
against  Myles  Cogan,  on  account  of  his  prominence  in 
the  Fenian  movement.  He  took  every  opportunity 
of  withering  and  galling  this  sensitive  soul  by  every 
kind  of  carping  and  allusion.  But  when  he  subjected 
this  proud  young  fellow  to  personal  humiliation  in  the 
numberless  searchings  which  the  warders  carried  out 
under  pretext  of  discovering  secret  correspondence  or 
worse,  it  needed  all  the  caution  and  self-control  of 
the  young  convict  to  keep  from  violence. 

One  morning,  Myles  with  a  large  batch  of  convicts 
was  harnessed  to  an  immense  float  on  which  was  placed 
an  enormous  block  of  granite.  They  were  dragging  it 
up  from  the  quarry  just  near  the  prison,  the  warders 
looking  on.  The  prisoner  in  front  of  Myles  was  tak- 
ing the  work  easily,  as  could  be  seen  by  the  slackness 
of  the  rope,  and  thus  additional  strain  was  flung  on 
his  fellows.  The  warder,  purposely  misunderstanding 
this,  called  out: 

"Number  86,  pull  on  there,  will  you." 

Myles,  thus  addressed,  strained  to  the  utmost,  and 
then,  as  a  sharp  pain  smote  him,  he  fell  in  the  tracks. 

They  unloosed  him,  and  bade  him  rise.  He  couldn't. 
The  warders  disbelieved  him,  and  again  ordered  him 
to  rise. 

"My  back  is  broken,"  he  said.     "I  cannot  stand." 

They  raised  him  rudely;  and  a  couple  of  convicts 
were  summoned  to  get  a  wheelbarrow,  and  take  him 


A  STORY  OF  '67  171 

back  to  his  cell.  It  was  no  easy  task,  and  Myles 
suffered  excruciating  tortures.  In  his  cell,  he  was 
stripped  and  examined,  the  doctor  pressing  his  hand 
down  the  spine.  When  he  touched  where  the  muscles 
were  torn  and  lacerated,  Myles  winched. 

"Malingering!"  said  the  doctor. 

"  You're  a  liar,  you  scoundrel ! "  said  Myles.  "  I'm  not 
malingering.     I  demand  the  services  of  another  doctor." 

The  doctor  laughed.  The  matter  was  reported  to 
the  Governor,  who  instantly  ordered  Myles  the  dark 
cells,  solitary  confinement,  and  bread  and  water  for 
a  week.  There  in  the  deep  darkness,  unbroken  by  a 
ray  of  light,  except  when  the  warder  once  a  day  brought 
him  the  loaf  of  bread  and  the  can  of  water,  Myles 
passed  the  lonely  hours  in  excruciating  pain,  unrelieved 
by  a  moment's  sleep,  except  when  Nature  now  and 
again  conquered,  only  to  be  driven  back  to  spasms  that 
seemed  to  tear  open  all  the  muscles  of  his  body.  He 
tried  to  support  his  courage  by  thinking  of  all  he  had 
gone  through,  —  the  excitement,  the  enthusiasm,  the 
clasping  of  hands,  the  voices  of  the  people  dying  away 
in  murmurous  cadences  as  he  descended  from  the  dock. 

"How  little  they  know,"  he  thought,  "what  the 
horrors  of  penal  servitude  mean.  And  is  the  game 
worth  the  candle?  Perhaps  even  now  Halpin  and  I 
are  forgotten." 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week,  he  became  delirious, 
spouted  snatches  of  national  poetry,  addressed  Agnes 
and  his  father  and  Halpin;  gave  the  word  of  command 
to  troops.  It  was  lucky.  He  had  ceased  to  feel  pain 
in  the  delirium.  When  he  awoke  to  consciousness,  he 
was  in  the  prison  hospital.  There  he  lay  for  weeks,  a 
prey  to  such  physical  and  mental  anguish  as,  thank 
God,  does  not  fall  to  the  lot  of  many. 


XXV 

Yet  from  that  dreary  Golgotha,  he  could  pen  such 
lines  as  these  to  his  sister: 

"Dartmoor  Prison, 

"Princetown,  Devon, 
"March  16,  187.... 

"Dearest  Agnes: 

"  Again  I  write  to  assure  you  I  am  well.  The  winter 
has  been  very  severe,  as  I  suppose  it  has  been  in  Ire- 
land; but  we  are  well  protected  from  cold.  The  house 
is  heated;  and  the  chapel  is  almost  luxurious.  Sunday 
morning  is  verily  a  Sabbath  to  me.  The  Mass  with 
all  its  tender  associations,  the  sermon,  generally  good; 
but  above  all  the  music,  send  me  on  the  wings  of  imagi- 
nation half-ways  towards  heaven.  The  gallery  is 
occupied  by  the  officers  and  their  families,  many  of 
whom  have  lovely  voices.  The  harmonium  is  played 
by  the  daughter  of  the  protestant  Rector  of  the  parish; 
but  there  is  one  voice,  that  of  one  of  my  comrades,  a 
prisoner  like  myself,  and  it  seems  to  come  down  from 
heaven.  Yet  it  is  not  so  touching  as  when  at  Bene- 
diction all  the  prisoners,  myself  amongst  the  number, 
join  in  singing  the  0  Salutaris  and  the  Litany.  There 
I  invariably  break  down.  To  hear  three  hundred  of 
us,  poor  devils,  appealing  to  the  'Morning  Star,'  the 
'Health  of  the  Weak,'  'the  Refuge  of  Sinners,'  is 
heart-breaking.  And  it  is  nearly  always  the  old 
Litany  we  used  sing  at  home,  when  during  the  May 


A  STORY  OF  '67  173 

evenings  the  candles  were  lighted  before  our  Lady's 
statue,  —  and  the  lovely  spring  flowers  cast  a  per- 
fume around  the  chapel.  There  are  no  flowers  here; 
only  a  desolate  waste;  but  memory  supplies  all  that 
and  much  more.  I  have  applied  to  be  allowed  serve 
Mass,  as  I  did  of  old  at  home;  but  as  yet  I  have  not 
had  my  request.  Did  I  say  memory  supplies  all? 
Yes,  and  it  also  tells  me  that  your  love  for  me  is  undy- 
ing, whoever  else  may  forget  me;  and  that  Father  James 
is  the  same  kind,  dear  old  friend  as  ever.  Give  him 
my  love;  and  remember  in  all  things  to  be  guided  by  him. 
"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"Myles  Cogan  (No.  86)." 

The  Governor  of  the  Prison  showed  that  letter  to  his 
wife,  before  he  posted  it.  With  a  woman's  swift 
intuition  she  said: 

"The  man  that  wrote  that  letter  is  not  a  bad  man." 

The  Governor  murmured  something  about  the 
deceitfulness  and  hypocrisy  of  prisoners. 

"He  has  been  punished  severely  as  a  refractory  and 
incorrigible  prisoner,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  know  what 
to  think." 

"It  might  be  worth  while  to  make  independent 
inquiries,"  said  his  wife. 

"That's  a  grand  letter,"  said  Father  James,  when 
Agnes  read  it  for  him,  seated  at  the  hot  fire  in  her 
snug  little  parlour.  The  snow  was  without,  just  as 
it  was  on  that  March  night  some  years  ago.  "Really, 
those  English  are  merciful.  I  have  read  accounts  of 
the  hardships  of  poor  prisoners  on  the  continent, 
especially  in  Italy,  not  to  speak  of  the  horrors  of  the 
salt  mines  of  Siberia;  but  there  is  a  good  deal  of  hu- 
manity in  these  English  prisons,  compared  with 
those." 


174  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Yes!"  said  Agnes,  sadly,  "but  for  life,  for  life!  I 
shall  never  see  him  again." 

"Now,  now,"  said  the  good  priest,  "you  mustn't 
give  way  to  that  nonsense.  How  often  have  I  told 
you  that  Mjdes  will  be  home  in  another  year  or  two. 
You  see  the  country  is  up  on  the  matter.  I  never 
thought  I'd  see  the  people  so  much  in  earnest." 

"But  the  Home  Secretary  has  refused  to  open  the 
question,"  she  said.  "And  they  say  now  that  these 
fresh  attacks  of  the  Fenians  in  England  have  closed 
the  doors  on  the  prisoners  for  ever." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  priest,  "we  won't  argue  the 
question.  But  longer  heads  than  yours  or  mine  have 
settled  that  an  amnesty  Avill  be  proclaimed  before  long. 
The  English  are  waking  up  to  the  fact,  that,  after  all, 
Ireland  has  grievances  when  so  many  fine  young  fellows 
are  prepared  to  go  to  death  or  dungeons  for  them." 

"God  grant  it!"  she  said  meekly,  her  hands  clasped 
on  her  knees. 

"By  the  way,  have  these  fellows  come  to  terms  with 
you  as  yet?  "  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Some  of  them,  and  I  fear  only  under  compulsion. 
Myles'  boys  threatened  them;  and  they  yielded.  They 
are  working  now  for  twenty-six  shillings  a  week." 

"And  how  much  did  Simpson  offer  them?" 

"Thirty!"  she  said.     "And  shorter  hours!" 

"The  black-hearted  scoundrel!"  said  the  priest  in  a 
sudden  fury.  "To  think  of  that  fellow,  a  perfect 
stranger,  coming  down  here  a  tatterdemalion  from 
Sligo;  and  taking  advantage  of  a  defenceless  girl. 
I'll  hunt  that  fellow  from  post  to  pillar,  until  I  get 
him  out  of  the  town." 

"But  it  is  the  people  themselves  who  are  encouraging 
him,"  she  said.     "I  wouldn't  mind  the  gentry  all  around, 


A  STORY  OF  '67  175 

although  they  always  dealt  with  us,  until  —  until 
father's  death;  but  they  have  now  gone  over  from  us 
almost  in  a  body.     Perhaps  they  are  not  to  blame." 

"If  they  were  gentlemen,  they  wouldn't  do  it," 
said  the  priest.  "Of  course,  they're  furious  against 
the  Fenians;  but  what  have  you  to  do  with  all  that? 
I'll  engage  Colonel  Hutchinson  has  not  withdrawn 
his  custom?" 

"No,  nor  old  Miss  Annesley.  I  believe  some  pres- 
sure was  brought  to  bear  on  them;  but  they  refused  to 
leave  me!" 

"Then,  'tis  our  own  people  who  have  gone  over  to  a 
perfect  stranger?" 

"Yes!  And  you  know  he  has  no  difficulty  in  getting 
workmen  to  put  up  his  new  mill.  They  don't  expect 
to  see  Myles  again!" 

"Slaves,  always  slaves!"  muttered  the  priest.  "Not 
a  particle  of  manliness  or  decency!  Who's  the  highest 
bidder?     That's  all!" 

"Do  you  still  think  I  should  continue  the  business?" 
she  asked.  Evidently,  she  had  broached  the  subject 
before. 

"I  do.  Most  positively.  You  can  easily  wait  for 
a  year  or  two  before  you  enter  a  convent;  but  I  wont 
have  poor  Myles  homeless  and  houseless  when  he 
comes  back!" 

"But  if  everj'thing  goes  to  rack  and  ruin,"  she 
pleaded.  "Would  it  not  be  better  to  save  something 
now?" 

"Money  is  not  the  question,"  he  replied.  "I  want 
to  see  Myles  at  Millbank;  and,  my  God,  what  a 
reception  we'll  give  him!" 

It  seemed  to  calm  her  fears.  The  priest  turned  the 
conversation. 


176  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"By  the  way,  when  did  you  hear  from  Mary  Carle- 
ton,  —  Mrs.  Kendall,  I  mean?" 

"Oh!  Not  since  she  returned  from  the  Continent. 
She  has  had  a  little  daughter,  and  Hugh,  she  says,  is 
growing  a  fine  fellow.  He  is  here  now  with  his  grand- 
mother." 

"Oh,  I  must  go  to  see  the  prodigy.  I  wonder  did 
she  ever  care  for  Myles?" 

"She  did,  I  think;  but  girls  cannot  choose  and  pick 
their  husbands  in  our  days.  I  think  she  was  right  in 
marrying  Mr.  Kendall." 

"Well,  according  to  the  world,  I  suppose.  He  is 
now  County  Inspector,  I  believe?" 

"Yes!  But  'tis  an  awful  place  where  they're  living. 
Imagine  twenty  miles  from  a  railway  station;  and  a 
post  once  a  week!" 

"No  great  attraction  for  correspondents!"  he  said, 
as  he  rose  to  go.  "By  Jove,  what  a  blizzard  that  was 
last  night,  just  the  same  as  in  '67,  when  these  poor 
fools  met  their  fate.  No  matter.  In  one  way,  they 
were  right.  There  never  was  such  a  fierce  national 
spirit  in  the  country,  as  at  this  moment.  Poor  Halpin 
was  a  prophet.  A  little  blood-letting  works  miracles. 
We'll  have  a  good  demonstration  at  his  grave  on 
Wednesday;    and  Myles  won't  be  forgotten." 

All  of  which,  could  it  be  communicated  to  that  sick 
and  lonely  prisoner  in  Dartmoor,  as  he  lay  awake  at 
night  in  fierce  pain,  and  listened  alternately  to  the 
howling  of  the  snow-storm  and  the  clanking  of  their 
manacles  beneath  the  prisoners'  bedclothes;  and  the 
slow  tread  of  the  armed  warder  up  and  down  the  aisle 
between  the  beds,  might  have  brought  a  little  comfort 
to  a  broken  and  wounded  spirit.  But  alas!  there  was 
no  communication  possible  there;    and  he  was  left  to 


A  STORY  OF  '67  177 

his  sombre  thoughts,  as  he  watched  the  snow-flakes 
gather  and  fall  on  the  dark  windows,  or  the  bleared 
and  smoky  lamp  that  swung  from  the  ceiling;  and 
thought,  I  have  chosen  Hell  for  my  inheritance  and 
portion,  and  it  shall  be  mine  till  merciful  Death  release 
me. 


XXVI 

Above  the  sunny  slopes,  that,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  handsome  villas,  bend  down  towards  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Mediterranean,  is  a  certain  hotel,  much 
in  favour  with  English  visitors;  and  somewhere  about 
the  time  that  Myles  Cogan  met  this  serious  accident 
in  the  Dartmoor  quarries,  and  close  on  the  opening  of 
Parliament,  a  great  ball  was  given  by  some  distinguished 
visitors  at  the  Hotel,  and  the  residents  in  the  crowded 
and  neighbouring  villas  were  invited.  Amongst  them 
were  Kendall  and  his  wife.  It  was  their  third  season 
at  this  delightful  place;  and  Mrs.  Kendall  was  so 
delighted  with  the  beauty  of  the  locality,  and  the  charm- 
ing society  she  met  there,  that  she  quite  determined 
to  spend  the  dreary  months  of  the  early  springtime 
in  that  charming  place  in  future.  It  was  something 
of  an  agony  to  part  with  little  Hugh,  but  her  mother 
was  importunate  in  her  demands  to  see  the  boy;  and 
this  left  his  mother  free. 

She  was  happy,  as  young  wives  and  mothers  are, 
who  are  surrounded  by  affection  and  care  and  those 
more  material  things  that  make  the  comfort  of  life. 
The  loneliness  of  her  Donegal  home  and  the  absence 
of  society  were  forgotten  in  her  maternal  cares.  Only 
that  now  and  then,  that  longing  for  the  sunny  skies 
and  the  charming  people  that  haunt  the  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean  just  when  London  fogs  and  influenza 
are  prevalent,  would  come  back;  and  then  Kendall 
could  refuse  her  nothing. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  179 

She  was  at  this  farewell  ball;  and  was  conspicuous 
there.  Her  bright  Irish  type  of  beauty  was  enhanced 
by  her  tasteful  dress,  and  some  rare  old  family  jewels, 
which  were  given  to  her  by  her  mother.  She  was  sit- 
ting out  on  the  closed  verandah  in  the  early  hours  of 
the  morning  with  her  partner,  a  man  of  middle  age, 
but  his  dark  hair  was  mottled  with  white  patches,  as 
if  it  were  not  the  handiwork  of  time,  but  the  rude  chem- 
istry of  trouble.  They  had  been  talking  in  the  usual 
vapid  way  about  the  ball,  and  the  dancing,  and  the 
little  scandals  that  hover  around  such  places,  when 
suddenly  he  threw  his  arms  high  over  his  head,  yawned 
and  sighed  and  said: 

"Imagine!  In  a  few  days,  instead  of  sitting  out 
here  at  two  in  the  morning  with  a  charming  com- 
panion, I  shall  be  on  the  green  benches  of  that  detes- 
table House  of  Commons,  badgered  to  death  and 
worried  by  those  Irish  wolf-dogs." 

"And  are  the  Irish  so  very  terrible?"  she  said. 

"Unspeakable!"  he  replied. 

"I  thought  that  epithet  was  reserved  by  your  leader 
for  the  Turks?"  she  said. 

"I'd  rather  meet  a  whole  battalion  of  the  Moslems 
than  half  a  dozen  of  your  countrymen,"  he  replied. 

"And  my  countrywomen?"  she  queried. 

"One  is  equal  to  an  army  there,"  he  said.  "Your 
fellowcountrymen  can  worry;  but  your  fellow- 
countrywomen  conquer!" 

"Indeed?  I  thought  it  was  the  proud  boast  of 
Britons  that  they  were  unsubduable.  They  never 
know  they  are  beaten!" 

"True!"  he  said,  with  a  flush  of  pride  and  an  instinct 
of  coquetry.  "On  the  field,  in  the  senate,  on  the  seas, 
we  are  invincible  by  reason  of  our  very  stupidity.     In 


180  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

the  drawing-room,  in  the  ball-room,  in  the  boudoir, 
we  are  beaten  by  reason  of  our  inferiority." 

"In  what?" 

"In  everything  —  grace,  beauty,  dignity — " 

She  cut  him  short. 

"I  have  read  somewhere  that  England's  power 
consists  in  her  genius  for  assimilation.  It  is  the  cause 
of  all  her  colonial  successes." 

"Quite  so.  We  beat  the  subject  races  flat  to  the 
earth;  then  lift  them  up  and  make  Englishmen  of  them. 
Look  at  India!  We  conquered  Sikhs,  Ghourkas, 
Mahrattas,  Nepalese,  and  then  incorporated  them  in 
our  Indian  armies,  and  made  them  our  bravest  and 
most  determined  allies." 

"It  is  an  abrupt  form  of  civilisation,"  said  Mary 
Rendall,  "but  it  is  certainly  successful.  And  you 
treat  these  Hindoo  tribes  well?" 

"Certainly.  The  moment  we  make  them  feel  our 
power,  we  make  them  also  experience  our  clemency." 

"Then  you  don't  shoot  down  those  rebels,  who  are 
striving  just  to  keep  their  own;  nor  put  them  in  prison, 
nor  manacle,  nor  fetter  them?" 

"Never.  Such  a  thing  is  unheard  of.  We  had  to 
exercise  a  little  severity  in  the  mutiny;  but  not  other- 
wise. The  tribes  of  India  now  understand  what  it  is 
to  be  under  British  protection.  A  revolution  is  now 
impossible!" 

"Alas!  for  my  poor  countrymen,"  said  Mary  Rendall, 
as  her  thoughts  went  back  to  Kilmorna  and  the  rising, 
"they  are  the  only  race  that  never  has  known  British 
clemency." 

"They  are  too  dangerous!"  said  the  minister.  "And 
treacherous.  They  must  be  kept  down  with  a  strong 
hand,  when  they  rebel!" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  181 

"About  as  dangerous  as  rabbits!"  said  his  com- 
panion, "when  the  sportsmen  come  in  to  the  field 
with  their  breechloaders." 

"I  regret  to  say  that  is  notour  experience,"  he  said. 
"And  I  feel  I  am  more  flattering  to  the  fighting  race, 
as  they  love  to  call  themselves,  than  their  fair  country- 
woman!" 

"I  saw  the  rising,"  she  replied.  "I  knew  many  of 
the  Fenians  — " 

"Mrs.  Kendall!     Impossible!"  said  the  minister. 

"Quite  true!"  she  said  composedly.  "They  were 
labourers,  artisans,  tradesmen,  unskilled  in  arms,  and 
unarmed.  They  went  out  with  their  pikes  and  shovels 
and  old  muskets  to  fight  England,  with  her  cannon  and 
breechloaders;  and,  because  they  went  down  in  the 
unequal  fight,  you  think  they  are  outside  the  pale  of 
clemency." 

"But  our  reports,  my  dear  Mrs.  Rendall,  our  reports 
come  to  this,  that  they  are  most  sanguinary  ruffians, 
even  in  prison.  The  authorities  have  to  use  the  most 
severe  methods  to  keep  them  in  order  and  under 
discipline." 

"They  provoke  the  lions,  and  then  brand  them  with 
hot  irons,"  she  said. 

"But  you  said  just  now  they  were  but  rabbits." 

"The  rank  and  file?  Yes!  But  there  were  men 
amongst  them  that  might  challenge  comparison  with 
the  bravest  and  most  honourable  in  the  land.  And 
it  is  just  these,  that  are  first  driven  mad  by  ill-treat- 
ment, and  then  punished  as  malefactors." 

"I  can  forgive  your  generosity  towards  your  mis- 
guided countrymen,"  he  replied,  "but  we  have  grave 
duties  towards  our  own  country  and  society  — " 

"Undoubtedly,"  she  interrupted.     "But  one  of  the 


182  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

gravest  should  be  that  you  should  see  for  yourselves, 
and  not  depend  too  much  on  officials  and  subordinates." 

"You  are  interested?"  he  queried. 

"Yes!  In  all.  In  one  in  particular;  but  there  is 
no  room  for  mercy  there,  because  he  was  an  officer  and 
leader  in  the  Fenian  forces." 

"May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  why  you  are  so 
interested?" 

"Yes.  His  sister  and  I  were  schoolmates.  I  never 
met  him.  But  I  gathered  from  all  I  heard  that  he 
was  a  gentleman  in  every  way  —  the  very  soul  of 
honour." 

"So  much  the  more  dangerous  to  us,"  murmured  the 
official.  "Yet,  for  your  sake,  I  shall  make  enquiries. 
Where  is  he  imprisoned?" 

"I  have  no  idea.  I  have  lost  all  communication 
with  the  people  I  knew.     He  is  in  some  English  prison." 

Her  voice  broke,  and,  looking  at  her  there  under  the 
verandah  lights,  her  companion  saw  that  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"You  at  least  remember  his  name?"  he  said,  taking 
out  a  notebook. 

"Yes!     Cogan  — MylesCogan!" 

He  wrote  the  name  rapidly. 

"For  Agnes  — his  sister's  sake,"  she  asked,  "please 
do  something;   and  —  and  — " 

She  stopped. 

"Please  do  not  mention  to  Mr.  Kendall  that  I  spoke 
of  such  things.  He  is  an  official,  you  know,  and 
prejudiced!" 

"I  understand!"  he  said. 

The  result  of  this  little  conference  was  as  follows: 

A  few  weeks  later,  the  minister  was  in  his  place  in 
the  House;   and  in  a  leisured  moment  he  requested  his 


A  STORY  OF  '67  183 

friend,  the  Home  Secretary,  to  make  enquiries  about 
the  conduct  and  condition  of  a  certain  leading  Fenian 
convict,  named  Myles  Cogan.  A  few  nights  after, 
he  had  to  undergo  a  terrific  cross-heckling  from  the 
Opposition,  above  and  below  the  gangway.  Furious, 
yet  keeping,  like  a  good  Englishman,  a  calm  exterior, 
he  sat  down;  and  just  then,  the  Home  Secretary,  who 
sat  in  front  of  him,  handed  him  a  letter  over  his 
shoulder.     It  ran  thus: 

"Daetmook  Prison, 

"March  21st,  18.... 

"Major has   the  honour  to   inform  the   Home 

Secretary,  in  reply  to  his  letter  of  enquiry  dated  the 
16th  instant,  that  the  Fenian  prisoner,  Myles  Cogan, 
undergoing  a  life-sentence  in  this  prison,  has  been 
reported  as  refractory  and  insubordinate.  He  has 
been  under  punishment  nearly  the  whole  time  of  his  im- 
prisonment; and  has  developed  homicidal  tendencies." 

"H'm,"  said  the  minister,  handing  back  the  docu- 
ment to  the  Home  Secretary,  "a  bad  case!  But  I 
wonder  did  the  punishment  precede  the  homicidal  ten- 
dencies, or  was  it  their  sequel.  I  feel  that  I  have 
homicidal  tendencies  to-night.  I  could  wish  to  hang 
three  or  four  of  those  fellows  opposite." 

Yet  the  special  enquiry  from  the  Home  OflSce  dis- 
quieted Major not  a  little.     It  showed  a  special 

interest  somewhere.  But  he  put  the  harassing  thought 
aside.  There  were  the  incontrovertible  reports  of  the 
chief  warder  and  the  house-surgeon.  Clearly  he  could 
not  interfere.     These  things  must  be. 


XXVII 

Hence,  the  same  course  of  studied  insult  was  pur- 
sued; and  hence  Myles  found  himself  sinking  deeper 
and  deeper  in  seas  of  desperation.  Gradually,  but 
quite  consciously,  his  character  began  to  undergo  a 
process  of  deterioration,  which  alarmed  him  at  first, 
and  then  came  to  be  regarded  by  his  stifled  conscience 
as  the  inevitable  result  of  his  condition.  And  alas! 
he  felt,  and  oh!  how  keenly,  that  the  resources  of  re- 
ligion, which  would  have  upheld  and  sustained  him, 
were  cut  away  from  him.  Once  he  had  asked  for  con- 
fession from  the  prison  chaplain.  He  admitted  he 
had  belonged  to  the  Fenian  organisation,  and  there- 
fore could  not  receive  sacraments;  but  he  added  with 
a  bitter  smile: 

"I  no  longer  am  a  member.     I  am  a  convict." 

"Then  you  regret  very  much  your  past  history  with 
all  its  follies  and  crimes?" 

"Crimes?     I  never  committed  a  crime  in  my  life." 

"It  was  a  crime  to  enter  an  illegal  society,  having 
for  its  object  to  dethrone  our  Queen,  and  subvert  her 
authority." 

"To  dethrone  the  Queen?  Never!  That  never 
entered  our  minds.  To  subvert  English  Government 
in  Ireland  —  yes!  We  would  have  done  it,  if  we 
could!" 

"But  you  have  had  leisure  now  to  see  the  criminality 
of  such  courses,  and  to  regret  them?" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  185 

"I  cannot  say  so,"  said  Myles.  "My  experience 
here  has  convinced  me  that  the  British  Government  is 
the  incarnation  of  all  evil." 

"Then  I  can  do  nothing  for  you,"  said  the  priest. 

He  tried  to  pray;  and  it  was  a  consolation  at  first. 
He  fell  back  on  the  sweet,  solemn  meditations  which 
he  had  so  often  made  with  his  mother  on  the  Passion 
and  Death  of  the  Divine  Victim  of  human  injustice; 
but  somehow,  the  despairing  thought  that  he  was  cut 
away  from  communion  with  the  Church,  and  had  no 
right  to  her  consolations,  made  these  meditations  as 
bitter  wormwood  in  his  mouth.  An  outcast  from 
society;  a  branded  criminal,  and  cast  off  from  the 
company  of  the  faithful,  what  right  had  he  to  pray, 
he  asked  himself.  No!  There  was  no  help  in  Heaven 
or  on  earth.  He  flung  up  his  hands,  like  a  swimmer 
who  has  battled  long  against  the  waves,  and  finds  the 
terrific  powers  around  him  too  much  for  him,  and 
sank  down  into  the  depths  of  despair. 

The  poor  Fenians,  who  were  imprisoned  with  him, 
and  who,  by  reason  of  their  inferiority,  were  unmolested, 
viewed  the  horrible  tragedy  with  bleeding  hearts. 
Every  chance  that  offered,  they  eagerly  seized  it  to 
say  a  word  of  warning  and  encouragement. 

"Never  mind  those  Saxon  brutes.  Master  Myles! 
They're  moving  in  Ireland;  and  we'll  be  soon  home 
again!" 

Or: 

"Don't  give  that Orangeman,  Master  Myles,  the 

satisfaction  of  punishing  you.  Don't  you  see  what 
the  ruffian  is  aiming  at?  And  that  your  hand  is  in 
the  lion's  mouth?" 

"Yes!  He  saw  it  all;  but  he  had  long  since  con- 
cluded that  flesh  and  blood  could  not  bear  such  indigni- 


186  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

ties  as  were  offered  him;  and  he  sank  into  a  mood  of 
savage  hatred,  that  accompanied  him  all  day,  woke  him 
up  in  the  watches  of  the  night,  and,  finally,  made  him 
pray  that  he  might  go  mad,  and  wreak  on  his  persecu- 
tor that  deadly  revenge  which  his  conscience,  whilst 
he  kept  his  faculties,  would  not  allow. 

In  the  summer  of  the  following  year,  a  young  Irish 
priest,  lent  to  the  diocese  of  Plymouth,  and  just  then 
officiating  at  Exeter,  was  ordered  to  proceed  to  Dart- 
moor, and  take  up  the  Sunday  duty  in  place  of  the 
prison  chaplain,  who  had  left  for  the  holidays.  He 
packed  his  valise,  took  the  train  to  Tavistock,  met  the 
governor's  groom,  with  his  pony  and  trap  in  waiting, 
and  was  driven  along  the  broad,  sheltered  roads  that 
are  such  a  feature  in  Devonshire.  Then,  they  sud- 
denly turned  to  the  left  and  commenced  the  ascent  of 
a  high  road,  bordered  with  oaks  and  elms  which  gradu- 
ally gave  place  to  pine  and  fir,  until  all  traces  of  vegeta- 
tion seemed  to  cease;  and  the  broad  spaces  of  the 
moor,  broken  and  undulating  like  a  stormy  sea,  lay 
bare  before  their  eyes. 

It  was  a  melancholy  spectacle  even  in  the  summer 
time.  The  sun,  that  beat  down  hotly  on  the  lower 
levels,  seemed  veiled  and  pallid  here;  and,  instead  of 
broad  spaces,  glowing  in  his  light,  a  kind  of  grey  and 
muffled  halo  spread  on  every  side,  giving  an  additional 
aspect  of  melancholy  to  the  scene.  The  driver  chatted 
away  unceremoniously  with  the  young  priest;  and  just 
as  they  reached  the  slight  elevation  beneath  which  the 
village  of  Princetown,  with  its  monster  gaol  lay  hidden, 
he  pointed  to  a  grey  patch,  that  showed  clearly 
against  the  duns  and  browns  of  the  moorland,  and 
said: 


A  STORY  OF  '67  187 

"You  see  that  grey  patch,  or  square,  Sir,  right  over 
there?" 

"Yes!  just  there  to  the  north!" 

"That's  a  batch  of  convicts,  Sir.  They  have  been 
working  on  the  farm  all  day;  and  just  now  are  called 
in  for  the  march  home." 

The  young  priest  continued  for  a  long  time  staring 
at  that  grey  square  across  the  horizon.  The  word 
"convict"  fascinated  him.  He  had  never  seen  one. 
He  was  about  to  be  brought  in  touch  with  a  strange 
and  mysterious  life. 

The  pony  cantered  gaily  up  the  long,  broad  street 
of  the  village,  the  priest  alighted  at  the  chaplain's 
door,  took  one  hasty  and  alarmed  look  at  the  massive 
granite  walls  that  towered  up  before  him  with  their 
tiny  windows,  suggesting  a  huge  bastion  or  fortifica- 
tion loopholed  for  musketry;  and  had  a  calm,  cold 
greeting  from  the  Englishwoman,  who  acted  as  house- 
keeper to  the  chaplain. 

When  he  had  seen  his  room,  and  made  his  ablutions, 
he  came  down  to  tea,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that 
his  attendant  now  was  one  of  the  prisoners.  He  was 
a  fine,  handsome,  athletic  fellow,  with  smiles  dancing 
all  over  his  face;  and  would  have  been  quite  a  pleas- 
ing picture  but  for  the  garb  of  navy  blue,  decorated 
with  broad  red  arrows,  and  the  rude  muffler  around 
the  neck  and  the  list  shoes  that  seemed  to  speak  of 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  prison. 

"I'm  Father  G 's  servant,  Sir,"  he  said.  "Any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you,  command  me." 

"But,"  said  the  young  priest,  scanning  the  prison 
garments,  "you're  not  exactly  in  the  costume  of  an 
ordinary  footman?" 

"No!"  said  the  convict,  smiling,  "  I  am  a  prisoner,  Sir, 


188  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

doing  my  last  term.  This  is  the  prison  dress  for  those 
who  are  doing  their  last  six  months." 

"And  they're  not  afraid  you'd  take  French  leave, 
and  skedaddle?" 

"Oh,  no,  Sir!  Why  should  I?  I'd  be  shot,  or 
captured  in  twenty-four  hours;  and  should  do  all  my 
term  over  again." 

"Ha,  I  see!"  said  the  priest.  "Of  course,  you're  a 
Catholic?" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

Then  you  just  tell  me  what  I've  got  to  do  tomorrow? 
At  what  hour  does  Mass  begin?" 

"Ten  o'clock.  Sir!  You  just  go  up  to  the  Lodge, 
and  the  warder  will  give  you  the  keys  and  all  direc- 
tions. Benediction  at  3.  Ha!  There  goes  the  last 
bell.     Good-night,  sir!" 

"Good-night!"  said  the  priest,  as  he  was  left  to  his 
own  meditations. 

He  speedily  recovered  himself,  asked  for  pen  and 
paper,  and  wrote  out  the  headings  of  the  morning's 
discourse. 

A  few  minutes  before  ten  o'clock  next  morning  he 
was  at  the  Lodge,  got  a  heavy  bunch  of  keys  from  the 
porter,  with  strict  injunctions  that  on  no  account  was 
he  to  part  with  them  even  for  a  moment,  shown  how 
to  lock  and  unlock  the  heavj^  iron  gates  by  shooting 
the  bolt  twice  each  way,  and  again  warned  that  the 
keys  were  not  for  a  moment  to  leave  his  possession. 

The  chapel  bell  was  pealing  out  its  dismal  notes, 
as  he  crossed  two  large  yards  and  entered  the  prison 
precincts.  Two  convicts  were  just  entering  the  chapel. 
They  were  his  acolytes.  One  had  red,  tender  eyes; 
the  other  was  small  of  stature,  and  spoke  with  diffi- 
culty.    He  had  a  diseased  palate.     The  prisoners  filed 


A  STORY  OF  '67  189 

in,  as  the  young  priest  was  robing.  The  navy-blue 
men  came  first;  then  the  grej'^s,  very  much  larger  in 
number.  The  officials  and  their  wives  mounted  the 
steps  towards  the  gallery.  Then  there  was  a  pause, 
and  the  priest,  feeling  the  heavy  keys  galling  his  leg, 
took  them  out,  and  placed  them  on  the  table.  He 
was  instantly  tapped  on  the  shoulder  by  the  warder, 
who  stood  by. 

"You  must  not  leave  them  off  your  person.  Sir,  even 
for  a  moment." 

The  priest  shivered,  and  just  then  the  heavy  clank, 
clank  of  chains  was  heard;  and,  at  a  quick  pace,  twenty 
or  more  convicts,  dressed  in  hideous  yellow,  were 
marched  in.  Each  of  these  was  fettered  by  long  rods, 
ankle  to  wrist. 

"Dangerous  prisoners!"  whispered  the  warder.  And 
as  the  priest  was  taking  up  his  chalice,  he  continued: 

"You'll  see  the  claimant  in  the  Tichborne  case  right 
under  the  gallery.  You'll  know  him  by  his  enormous 
size." 

But  the  priest  had  no  eyes  for  such  things  that 
morning;  for  as  he  emerged  from  the  sacristy,  and 
walked  up  the  long  aisle  of  the  chapel,  he  saw  a  sight 
that  froze  him  with  horror.  The  prisoners  sat  on  long 
forms,  and  at  the  end  of  every  two  of  these,  seated 
on  a  raised  stool,  back  to  the  altar,  and  facing  the 
prisoners,  was  a  warder,  his  right  hand  on  his  right  knee 
holding  a  revolver.  It  was  horrible  in  God's  own  house, 
and  in  the  presence  of  the  Prince  of  Peace.  The  young 
priest,  however,  !;ot  through  the  Mass  as  well  as  he 
could,  preached  his  little  homily  from  a  pulpit  of 
Portland  Stone,  —  which  had  been  made  by  the 
Fenian  prisoners  at  Portland,  —  and  escaped  to  the 
Sacristy,  carrying  with  him  the  doleful  image  of  that 


190  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

prison  scene,  and  yet  with  such  music  ringing  in  his 
ears  as  he  had  never  heard  before.  For  the  choir, 
consisting  mostly  of  the  officers  and  their  wives  and 
children,  seemed  to  have  been  highly  trained;  and 
one  voice  soared  above  all,  like  the  voice  of  a  seraph, 
sent  by  God  to  show  the  outcasts  and  the  degraded 
what  sweetness  and  holiness  could  be  infused  even 
into  the  sordid  conditions  of  their  existence.  What 
was  his  surprise  to  learn  that  the  voice  was  the  voice 
of  a  convict  —  a  young  Bank-Clerk  from  Liverpool, 
who  had  changed  some  figures  in  his  Ledger. 


XXVIII 

At  Benediction,  he  met  the  same  congregation, 
heard  the  same  voices  again;  but  was  startled  to  find 
the  Litany  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  taken  up  and  sung  in 
admirable  time  by  the  entire  body  of  convicts.  And, 
as  he  listened,  and  heard  these  poor  outcasts,  the 
offscouring  of  humanit}^,  raising  their  voices  and  call- 
ing on  the  "Morning  Star,"  and  "The  Refuge  of  Sin- 
ners" to  pray  for  them,  he  realised  for  the  first  time  the 
Catholicism  of  that  mighty  Church  that  knows  no 
distinction,  nor  makes  it;  but  takes  all,  even  the 
worst  of  criminals,  under  its  maternal  protection, 
seeing  neither  the  trappings  of  Kings,  nor  the  vesture 
of  menials;  neither  the  scarlet  and  ermine  of  the  judge, 
nor  the  coarse  serge  of  the  criminals,  —  seeing  only 
souls,  souls  to  be  gathered  through  communion  with 
her,  into  the  ranks  of  the  immortals. 

The  young  priest,  softened  and  penetrated  with 
these  sentiments,  was  about  to  move  homewards  when 
a  warder  said: 

"There's  a  poor  fellow,  pretty  bad.  Sir —  .1  fact, 
we  think  he's  insane;  and  probably  it  would  be  well 
that  you  should  see  him." 

He  led  the  young  priest  upstairs,  and  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs,  he  pointed  to  a  long,  low  room,  the  ceiling 
of  which  was  supported  by  iron  pillars. 

"Our  Infirmary!"  he  said.     "That,"  pointing  to  a 


192  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

man,  who  was  standing  near  one  of  the  pillars,  and  who 
had  lost  his  right  arm,  "is  one  of  the  Fenian  prisoners. 
The  poor  fellow,  to  whom  I  am  bringing  you,  is 
another." 

He  led  him  along  a  dim,  dark  corridor,  with  corru- 
gated iron  cells  on  either  hand;  stopped  before  a 
door,  took  the  keys  from  his  belt,  opened  the  door, 
ushered  the  priest  into  a  dark  cell,  locked  the  door,  and 
went  away. 

After  the  first  moments  of  alarm  at  being  locked  into 
a  dark  cell  with  a  lunatic,  the  priest  looked  around, 
and  as  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  darkness, 
aided  a  little  by  one  tiny  pencil  of  light  which  stole 
down  through  a  hole  in  the  corner  of  the  cell,  he  per- 
ceived that  it  was  entirely  devoid  of  furniture  of  any 
kind.  There  were  the  four  walls  of  iron,  the  floor  of 
iron,  the  ceiling  of  iron,  and  no  more.  And  not  a 
sound  showed  that  there  was  a  human  being  there, 
besides  himself.  Then,  he  became  conscious  that  there 
was  something  huddled  at  his  feet;  and  gradually  he 
saw  the  outline  of  a  figure  on  the  floor.  Kneeling 
down,  he  passed  his  hand  over  the  man's  forehead 
and  whispered: 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  faint  voice.  "I  know  you  are  a 
priest." 

And  then  the  whole  figure  of  the  man  became  con- 
vulsed with  sobbing,  as  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks. 

"Where  are  your  hands?"  said  the  priest. 

"I'm  in  a  strait-jacket,"  said  the  voice,  faintly. 
"They  think  me  insane  and  dangerous;  and  I  suppose 
I  am." 

"You  don't  speak  like  one,  my  poor  fellow,"  said 


A  STORY  OF  '67  193 

the  priest.  "Now,  tell  me  your  name,  and  all  about 
you." 

"Myles  Cogan;  I  was  a  Fenian  — " 

"Myles  Cogan  of  Kilmorna!"  said  the  priest,  "who 
was  with  Halpin  at  Slieve  Ruadh?" 

"Yes!"  said  the  prisoner,  faintly. 

"Good  God  in  Heaven!"  said  the  priest.  "Myles 
Cogan  reduced  to  this!" 

For  a  few  seconds  he  could  not  speak.  He  had  read 
all  about  that  abortive  rising;  read  the  speeches  of 
the  prisoners  in  the  dock;  followed  them  in  their  way 
to  English  dungeons,  and  then  lost  them.  And  now, 
Myles  Cogan,  the  brave  young  Chief,  the  Bayard  of 
the  time,  "  without  fear,  without  reproach,"  reduced  to 
this.  The  tears  of  the  young  priest  fell  fast;  whilst 
he  found  it  hard  to  control  the  rage  and  indignation 
that  consumed  him  at  such  unspeakable  brutality. 

"Now,"  he  said,  still  kneeling,  and  trying  to  speak 
in  a  composed  voice,  "tell  me  all  your  history  since 
you  came  here,  keep  back  nothing,  and  I  know  you 
won't  exaggerate." 

And  so,  there  in  the  darkness  of  that  horrid  dungeon, 
Myles  poured  out  all  his  sorrows  and  despair  into  the 
ear  of  that  young  sympathetic  Irishman,  who  listened 
with  burning  cheeks  and  dilated  eyes  to  the  horrible 
story. 

When  all  was  ended,  Myles  said: 

"One  thing  more.  Father.  I  want  to  be  reconciled 
to  God  and  his  Church.     Will  you  hear  my  confession?" 

He  did;  and  rising  up,  he  whispered: 

"Now  cheer  up!  The  darkest  hour  is  just  before 
the  dawn.  You'll  hear  something  very  soon.  Mean- 
while pray.     Here  is  a  tiny  crucifix.     Keep  it  always 


194  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

with  you.  It  will  remind  you  of  Him,  who  has  'borne 
our  infirmities  and  carried  our  sorrows.'" 

"I  hope  they  won't  take  it  from  me,"  said  Myles. 

The  priest  touched  the  bell.  The  warder  came  up 
and  released  him.  As  they  passed  the  door  of  the 
infirmary  again,  the  young  priest  said: 

"May  I  speak  to  that  patient?"  pointing  to  the 
armless  prisoner. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Sir!  He  has  not  asked;  and  it  is 
against  the  regulations!" 

The  priest  managed  to  gulp  down  some  kind  of 
dinner  that  day;  and  in  the  refulgent  glory  of  a 
beautiful  summer  evening,  he  went  out  for  a  walk 
along  the  moor.  He  went  with  one  of  the  warders, 
who  was  off  duty,  and  who  had  offered  to  accompany 
him.  They  strolled  along  the  deep  canal,  or  leat,  that 
brought  water  to  the  town  and  prison  from  the  high 
levels  of  the  moorland;  and  there  the  warder,  an  Irish- 
man, an  ex  warrant-officer  in  the  Navy,  told  him 
many  things. 

"There  are  the  windows,  Sir,  where  the  French 
prisoners,  after  the  wars  of  Napoleon  used  sit,  and 
shout:  ^Vive  VEmpereur.'  And  there,"  pointing  to 
some  rushes  that  seemed  to  grow  out  of  a  dismal  swamp, 
"are  their  graves.     The  place  is  a  lake  in  winter!" 

But  probably,  what  surprised  the  good  priest  most 
was  the  astonishing  care  taken  of  the  health  of  the 
prisoners. 

"If  they  are  out  on  the  farm,  and  a  shower  of  rain 
comes  down,  they  are  instantly  ordered  home;  and 
every  man  must  strip  off  his  wet  clothes,  and  put  on 
perfectly  dried  and  well-aired  ones.  If  a  prisoner 
tries  to  escape,  we  must  never  fire  on  him  until  the 


A  STORY  OF  '67  195 

last  extremity,  and  then  we  must  never  send  a  bullet 
after  him,  but  only  slugs  to  maim  him." 

"Pretty  large  number  of  bad  characters  here?" 
"Yes!  And  yet  we  have  very  little  trouble.  They 
are  clever  fellows;  and  they  know  they  are  well- 
treated.  Why,  bless  you.  Sir!  'tis  the  same  old  fellows 
always  come  back  to  us.  I  take  a  fellow  down  to 
Tavistock  today,  and  say  good-bye!  Three  months 
after,  I  am  ordered  down  on  escort.  There  is  the  same 
old  chap  again!  'Hallo!  This  you!  Carter.'  'Yes, 
Sir!  Back  again  to  the  old  diggings,  Sir;  no  place 
like  them.'  You  see.  Sir,  the  grey  jacket  tells  on  them; 
and  everyone  knows  they  are  ticket-of-leave,  and  no 
one  will  employ  them.  They  won't  go  to  the  work- 
house. Anything  but  that.  So  they  break  their 
leave;  or  commit  some  petty  theft;  and  here  they 
come  back  to  us  again." 

"Then  they  must  be  well-treated!"  said  the  priest. 
"Certainly.     Any  prisoner  will   tell   you  he   would 
prefer  five  years'  penal  servitude  to  two  years'  im- 
prisonment in  a  county  gaol." 

"Ah,  indeed!     And  what  is  the  secret   of   all   this 
humane  treatment.     The  general   impression  is   that 
the  prisoners  are  treated  with  the  grossest  cruelty!" 
"Cruelty?     God  bless  you,  no.  Sir!     We  daren't!" 
"How  is  that?     No  one  could  ever  know!" 
"Know?     Why,   God  bless  you,  Sir,  everything  is 
known.     There  is  an  inquest  on  every  prisoner  that 
dies  here.     And  if  there's  neglect,  or  cruelty,   won't 
the  Press  ring  with  it?     If  a  prisoner  that  tried  to 
escape  was  shot  dead,  we'd  never  hear  the  end  of  it. 
'Tis  the  Press,  Father  —  the  Press  is  everything;   and 
the  Press  is  the  Devil!" 

"I  see!"  said  the  priest,  drawing  in  his  breath  in  a 


196  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

whisper.  "That  explains  many  things.  When  does 
the  Governor  leave  in  the  morning?" 

"Half-past  nine,  Sir!  He  asked  you  to  be  at  the 
Lodge  not  later.  There  is  a  tough  drive  across  the 
moor." 

"All  right!     I  shall  be  there!"  said  the  priest. 


XXIX 

They  drove  across  the  moor  together,  Major- 
Governor  and  young  Irish  priest;  but  spoke  not  a  word 
about  prisoners  or  prison-discipline,  although  it  was 
a  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  both. 
They  parted  at  Tavistock  station  with  mutual  assur- 
ances that  the  visit  was  pleasant  for  both. 

A  few  nights  after,  as  the  Home  Secretary  was  pass- 
ing into  the  House  through  the  Lobby  after  dinner,  he 
was  accosted  by  a  certain  Irish  Member,  who  thrust  a 
paper  into  his  hands,  and  said: 

"  Would  you  be  good  enough  to  read  that  letter  before 
I  send  it  to  the  Press?" 

The  Home  Secretary  was  in  excellent  humour,  and 
he  said: 

"Most  certainly.     With  pleasure!" 

This  was  a  mistake,  however.  It  was  a  pretty  slack 
night,  nothing  of  a  controversial  character  before  the 
House;  so  he  sat  back  on  the  ministerial  benches,  and 
commenced  to  read  the  letter  at  his  ease.  As  he  pro- 
ceeded, however,  his  face  lengthened,  he  sat  erect, 
and  continued  to  read  with  eyes  that  flamed  beneath 
frowning  brows.  Once  or  twice  he  looked  across  the 
floor  of  the  House  and  saw  the  Irish  Member  steadily 
watching  him.  He  folded  the  letter,  unfolded  it,  and 
read  it  again. 

He  then  left  the  House,  and  signalled  to  the  Member 
to  accompany  him. 

"I  have  read  this  letter,"  he  said,  as  they  passed 


198  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

into  the  library.  "I  think  it  is  a  gross  exaggeration. 
Do  you  know  the  writer?" 

"Yes,  well!  Depend  on  it,  every  word  in  that  letter 
is  true." 

"But  it  is  impossible,  my  dear  Sir;  I  have  heard 
about  this  prisoner.  He  has  been  reported  as  intracta- 
ble and  insubordinate  from  the  first  days  of  his 
imprisonment.  You  know  there  must  be  prison  dis- 
cipline —  " 

"I  understand  all  these  platitudes,"  said  the  Member, 
hotly.  "But  here  are  facts.  Here  is  a  splendid  type 
of  young  Irish  manhood  reduced  almost  to  a  condition 
of  imbecility  by  brutal  and  merciless  treatment.  I 
want  to  know  what  you  intend  doing  in  the  matter!" 

"Nothing,  I  can  do  nothing.  I  cannot  interfere. 
The  case  has  already  been  brought  under  my  notice, 
not  in  the  exaggerated  form  of  this  letter.  I  made 
inquiries  — " 

"May  I  ask  who  brought  it  under  your  notice?" 
queried  the  Member. 

"An  official  of  the  Government.  I  made  minute 
inquiries,  received  the  Governor's  report,  and  decided 
there  was  no  room  for  interference  on  the  part  of  the 
Government." 

"And  this  is  still  your  decision?" 

"Certainly.  We  cannot  interfere  with  the  internal 
discipline  of  our  prisons.  It  would  lead  to  intermi- 
nable confusion." 

"Very  good.  That  is  your  decision.  This  is  mine. 
Tonight  I  shall  have  a  hundred  copies  of  this  letter 
struck  off;  and  tomorrow  a  hundred  copies  will  be 
sent  to  the  newspapers  in  the  British  Empire,  America, 
and  the  Continent.  Then,  we  shall  hear  no  more  of 
Siberian  horrors." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  199 

"But  what  if  the  letter  is  refuted  and  contradicted? 
Do  you  think  the  letter  of  a  young  clergyman  will 
weigh  in  the  mind  of  the  British  public  against  the 
authoritative  statements  of  officials?" 

"The  British  public  be  damned!"  said  the  Member. 
"It  is  to  Ireland,  and  America,  and  France,  and  Ger- 
many, and  Russia,  it  will  appeal.  You  pose  as  humani- 
tarians before  the  world.  With  all  your  damned 
hypocrisy,  you  compare  the  mild  treatment  of  English 
prisons  with  Siberian  salt-mines  and  the  Devil's  Island. 
Now,  I  have  a  chance  of  showing  you  up  in  your  true 
colours,  before  the  world.  Here  is  a  political  prisoner, 
no  ordinary  criminal,  —  a  gentleman  by  education, 
who,  because  he  embarked  on  a  foolish  revolution 
that  was  crushed  in  a  couple  of  hours,  has  been  sen- 
tenced to  life-long  imprisonment  and  there  reduced 
by  brutal  treatment  to  a  condition  of  insanity.  That 
is  what  will  speed  on  the  wings  of  the  Press  before 
forty-eight  hours." 

The  Home  Secretary  looked  disturbed. 

"What  do  you  propose?"  he  said,  handing  back 
the  letter. 

"  This,"  said  the  Member,  promptly.  "  Whether  you 
like  it  or  not,  you'll  have  to  grant  a  complete  amnesty 
to  your  Irish  political  prisoners  before  many  months 
are  over  — " 

The  Minister  made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"Time  will  tell,"  said  the  Member.  "Meanwhile, 
what  I  do  not  propose,  but  demand,  is  this.  That  a 
commission  of  two  gentlemen,  I  don't  care  who  they 
are,  shall  proceed  at  once  to  Dartmoor  prison,  shall 
see  this  prisoner  in  his  dark  cell  and  in  his  strait-jacket; 
shall  interrogate  him,  and  then  the  warders  separately, 
and   let    me   have    their   report.     And    mark   you,    if 


200  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Myles  Cogan  dies  in  that  dungeon,  there  are  desperate 
men  in  Ireland  that  will  take  a  fearful  revenge  — " 

"Yes!  I  am  aware  of  all  that,"  said  the  Minister. 
"Your  countrymen  don't  stop  at  trifles." 

"Not  when  they  are  face  to  face  with  brutal  despo- 
tism," said  the  Member.  "But  your  decision?  Time 
presses." 

"I  see  no  objection,"  said  the  Minister.  "I  shall 
send  the  Commission  you  demand.  It  is  unusual, 
but  so  are  the  circumstances." 

''Very!"  said  the  Member.  "But  mark  you  —  no 
time  is  to  be  lost;  and  there  are  to  be  no  officials  sent. 
We  know  how  these  scoundrels  back  up  each  other." 

Hence,  a  few  days  after,  Myles  Cogan  was  helped 
by  two  warders  to  the  Governor's  office.  Hardened 
by  experience  and  his  dealings  with  poor,  degraded 
humanity  as  he  was,  the  Major's  heart  smote  him,  as 
he  looked  at  the  wreck  of  the  man  who  now  stood 
before  him.  Had  he  been  a  man  of  weak  nerves,  he 
would  not  have  remained  a  moment  alone  with  that 
emaciated  form,  those  sunken  eyes  that  seemed  to 
glare  at  him  like  a  wild  beast's,  that  mass  of  white, 
dirty  hair,  unkempt  and  standing  up,  a  crop  of  bristles. 
But  he  dismissed  the  warders,  and  motioned  Myles 
to  a  chair.  The  latter  sank  into  it  wearily;  and,  at 
once,  through  sheer  weakness,  his  head  sank  down 
between  his  knees. 

The  Governor  watched  that  pathetic  figure  for  a 
few  minutes.  Then  he  touched  the  bell.  A  warder 
appeared,  to  whom  he  whispered  something.  And 
very  soon,  his  own  maid  came  into  the  room  bearing 
a  tray  with  some  soup  and  wine.  He  beckoned  all  to 
depart;    and,  taking  the  bowl  of  soup,  he  stood  over 


A  STORY  OF  '67  201 

Myles  for  a  moment.  Then  he  touched  his  shoulder. 
M34es  sat  up;  and  the  Governor  placed  the  vessel  to 
his  lips.  He  drank  it  eagerly,  ravenously,  with  the 
appetite  of  a  famished  man.  Then  the  Governor 
compelled  him  to  swallow  two  glasses  of  wine  rapidly; 
and  the  human  face  came  back,  and  the  wild  beast  look 
departed. 

When  the  maid  returned  to  remove  the  tray,  a  little 
girl,  the  Major's  youngest  child,  crept  in  with  her, 
holding  fast  by  the  girl's  apron.  With  dilated  eyes  she 
stared  at  the  gaunt  figure  in  the  chair;  then  ran  over, 
and  nestled  near  her  father.  The  moment  the  eyes  of 
Myles  Cogan  rested  on  the  pretty  figure,  he  seemed 
to  undergo  a  transformation.  His  form  seemed  to 
dilate;  a  light  came  into  his  eyes,  and  Hope  stole  into 
his  heart.  No  wonder!  Accustomed  as  he  had  been 
for  nigh  on  ten  years  to  see  nothing  but  what  was 
harsh  and  revolting  and  repulsive,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  Heaven  was  opened  now,  and  looked  down  on  the 
bleeding  earth.  Bad  as  Nature  was  in  that  cold  for- 
bidding moorland,  where  never  was  seen  tree  or  bush 
or  flower,  where  the  very  winds,  unlike  the  soft,  caress- 
ing winds  of  Ireland,  were  harsh  and  dry  and  stifling, 
yet  Nature,  in  the  guise  and  form  of  men,  was  worse. 
Those  twisted,  gnarled,  fiendish  faces  of  the  criminals 
were  hardly  more  repulsive  than  the  stern,  rigid  coun- 
tenances of  the  officers,  from  which  every  trace  of  pity 
and  humanity  was  eliminated.  On  Sundays,  the 
voices  of  the  choir  brought  back  one  tender  feeling 
for  the  moment;  and  the  faces  of  a  few  women,  the 
wives  or  daughters  of  the  officers,  touched  a  human 
chord,  and  made  it  vibrate.  But  this  was  but  a 
moment  in  the  long  eternity  of  anguish;  it  was  as  the 
little   bird-song  to   the  chained  prisoner  down  there 


202  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

at  Chillon  beneath  the  waters  of  the  lake.  And  now, 
he  was  face  to  face  with  a  child  —  and  an  exceedingly- 
beautiful  child.  Her  great  round  eyes  stared  at  him 
in  pity  and  wonderment.  She  tossed  the  curls  from 
her  eyes  and  forehead  with  all  the  unconscious  coquetry 
of  childhood;  and  Myles  stared  at  her,  stared  and 
wondered,  whilst  he  felt  his  heart,  that  had  been  a 
stone  in  his  breast  for  ten  long  years,  was  actually 
becoming  human  again. 

The  Governor  noted  all  this,  and  said: 

"Go  and  shake  hands,  Morwenna!" 

The  child  hesitated.  Myles  Cogan  was  not  an 
attractive  object  in  his  prison  dress. 

"Go,  Morwenna,  and  shake  hands.  He  has  been 
ill  and  weak!" 

This  touched  the  child;  and  she  went  over;  and 
fixing  her  round,  wondering  eyes  on  his  face,  as  if 
seeking  to  read  his  thoughts,  she  put  out  her  tiny 
hand.  He  would  have  cheerfully  gone  back  to  his 
dreary  cell  then,  if  he  could  only  take  that  child  in 
his  arms  and  kiss  her.  But  he  felt  he  dared  not.  He 
took  the  tiny  fingers,  and  lifted  them  to  his  lips;  and 
then,  suddenly,  his  whole  frame  was  convulsed  in  a 
fit  of  hysterical  sobs,  that  shook  him,  until  he  lost  all 
control,  and  finally  wept  silent  tears,  that  were  sweet 
and  bitter  unto  him. 

The  Governor  touched  the  bell.     A  warder  appeared. 

"Hickson,"  he  said,  "this  prisoner  is  altogether 
exempt  from  every  kind  of  manual  work  in  future. 
You  understand?" 

"Yes,  Sir!" 

"He  will  attend  here  at  my  office  every  morning  at 
9.30;  and  I  shall  take  it  upon  me  to  arrange  his  work. 
You  may  remove  him!" 


XXX 

"Amnesty!  Amnesty!  Amnesty!"  was  the  one  cry 
that  rang  around  Ireland  these  momentous  years. 
It  was  uttered  at  public  meetings;  it  was  printed  on 
public  placards;  it  was  the  theme  of  all  political 
speeches;  it  took  precedence  of  tenant-right  and 
land-purchase  and  every  other  question,  even  of  the 
most  pressing  importance,  in  the  resolutions  that  were 
formulated,  spoken  to,  and  passed  with  acclamation 
at  every  public  meeting.  And,  at  last,  England  yielded, 
took  her  hand  off  the  throats  of  these  poor  labourers 
and  artisans,  and  set  them  free.  It  has  taken  this 
England  six  hundred  years  to  learn  the  lesson  that  it 
is  by  hanging,  quartering,  and  imprisoning,  she  has 
kept  the  idea  of  Irish  nationality  intact;  and  that 
it  is  by  indifference,  or  affected  kindness,  she  can  make 
Ireland  a  West  Anglia. 

And  so,  one  fine  morning,  the  other  Fenian  prisoners 
were  released,  and  went  on  their  way  rejoicing.  Myles 
Cogan  was  kept  back  for  a  week. 

How  did  he  view  it?  Well,  there  were  conflicting 
emotions  in  his  mind.  Recent  circumstances  had 
made  his  lot  easy,  and  even  comfortable;  and  he 
dreaded  going  out  into  the  world,  and  facing  the  battle 
of  life  again.  But  liberty!  liberty!  Ah,  yes!  That 
priceless  privilege  —  was  this  to  be  disdained?  As- 
suredly, no! 

He  stood,  on  a  warm  summer  morning,  outside  the 


204  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Governor's  house.  The  groom  was  at  the  horse's  head. 
To  the  left,  where  the  granite  quarry  was,  he  saw  the 
convicts,  harnessed  to  the  immense  float,  toiling 
wearily  up  the  steep  ascent.  He  was  done  with  that 
for  ever.  The  Governor  came  out,  and  Myles  said, 
in  a  bashful  way: 

"May  I  have  one  little  favour,  Major?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Just  to  say.  Good-bye!  to  your  little  girl!" 

"Certainly;  and  just  look  here,  Cogan!  That 
grey  suit  is  pretty  well  known  in  England  at  least. 
There  is  some  money  coming  to  you  for  clerical  work; 
and  when  you  get  to  Bristol,  perhaps,  an  overcoat 
would  be  no  harm!" 

He  gave  Myles  some  notes;  and  called  out  the  child. 
She  came  shyly,  and  bashfully;  Myles  took  her  hand, 
and  kissed  it,  and  said: 

"Good-bye!" 

They  mounted  the  trap;  and,  in  an  hour  and  a  half, 
parted  at  Tavistock  station. 

Myles,  still  weak  and  with  shattered  nerves,  leaned 
up  against  a  metal  pillar,  his  small  valise  on  the  ground 
near  him.  The  bell  rang.  The  mighty  engine,  mon- 
ster of  steel  and  brass,  rolled  in,  and  made  the  plat- 
form vibrate.  Myles  felt  sick,  and  would  have  lost 
his  train,  but  that  a  porter  touched  his  arm,  and  said: 

"Are  you  travelling?" 

"Yes.     To  Bristol!" 

"No  time  to  lose.     Get  aboard  quick.     What  class?" 

"Third." 

"There  you  are." 

He  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  and  thanked  God  it 
was  almost  empty.  He  looked  eagerly  and  suspi- 
ciously at  the  few  passengers;    but  they  were  buried  in 


A  STORY  OF  '67  205 

their  newspapers,  and  very  soon  the  easy  gliding  motion 
of  the  train  soothed  his  quivering  nerves,  and  he  leaned 
back,  and  watched  the  landscape  as  it  flitted  by.  And 
oh!  how  beautiful  it  was!  To  eyes,  accustomed  for 
ten  years  to  a  barren  moorland,  with  all  its  savagery 
of  rocks,  and  stones  and  scrub,  how  sweet  were  the 
green  meadows,  and  the  yellowing  cornfields,  and  the 
great  elms  that  lined  the  road,  and  the  summer  haze 
shrouding  it  all.  The  signal  houses,  smothered  in 
roses,  that  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  one  another 
in  their  vast  profusion,  were  hardly  less  attractive  than 
the  English  child-faces,  so  healthy  and  ruddy,  that 
thronged  the  doors  and  stared  unafraid  at  the  mon- 
ster thundering  by;  and  the  lazy  kine,  knee-deep  in 
grass,  lifted  their  heavy  heads  and  stared  stupidly 
at  them;  but  it  was  peace  and  plenty  and  freedom 
they  symbolised. 

At  the  stations  where  they  stopped,  and  took  in 
fresh  contingents  of  passengers,  the  dread  of  being 
noticed  as  a  released  convict  and  ticket-of-leave  man 
came  back  to  him  and  set  his  heart  beating.  But, 
no  one  seemed  to  notice  him.  They  arranged  for 
their  own  comfort  and  thought  of  nothing  else. 

At  last,  they  rolled  into  the  station  at  Bristol, 
Myles  gripped  his  valise,  inquired  at  what  hour  the 
night  boat  for  Cork  started,  and  made  his  way  towards 
the  quays.  Here  he  secured  a  berth,  stowed  away 
his  valise,  and  went  back  to  the  city.  He  entered  a 
draper's  shop,  and  asked  for  a  Melton  overcoat. 

The  attendant  looked  him  all  over,  noticed  the  coarse 
grey  jacket,  and  said: 

"Ours  is  a  cash  business.     We  give  no  credit!" 

"And  I  ask  none!"  said  Myles.  "If  you  cannot 
suit  me,  I  can  go  elsewhere!" 


206  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  man,  eyeing  him  curiously. 

He  selected  a  Melton,  then  a  stiff  felt  hat,  and  knew 
he  was  now  disguised.  Yet,  when  he  entered  the  street, 
and  a  policeman  watched  him,  and  even  followed  him 
a  few  steps,  he  felt  faint  and  disheartened  again. 

He  entered  a  restaurant,  sat  at  a  small  table  in  an 
obscure  corner,  and  asked  for  coffee,  cold  meat,  and 
rolls.  He  was  relieved  to  see  that  the  guests  did  not 
uncover  at  the  other  tables.  He  was  afraid  to  lift  his 
hat  and  exhibit  the  closely-clipped  hair  of  the  convict. 

As  he  lifted  the  coffee  to  his  lips,  his  hand  shook, 
and  the  attendant  said  sympathetically: 

"You  have  been  ill,  sir?" 

"Very,"  he  said,  grateful  for  the  words,  yet  afraid 
the  girl  had  understood  his  secret.  "My  nerves  are 
quite  shattered;  but  I  shall  soon  be  all  right.  I  am 
going  back  to  my  native  air." 

He  was  hoping  she  would  remain  and  continue  the 
conversation.  Her  woman's  voice,  softly  toned,  and 
her  presence,  and  the  very  swish  of  her  garments,  spoke 
of  gracious  things,  and  threw  a  glow  of  sympathy  over 
a  nature  that  had  been  congealed  under  the  iron  rigour 
of  the  prison. 

But  to  his  disappointment,  she  turned  away;  and 
said  in  her  cold,  English  fashion: 

"This  is  your  account,  Sir.  I  hope  you  will  have  a 
pleasant  journey." 

He  lingered  a  little  while;  and  then  went  down  to 
the  boat.  Steam  was  up,  and  there  were  some  signs  of 
life.  He  went  down  to  examine  his  berth;  and  found 
that  the  little  cabin  was  right  over  the  screw,  and 
there  were  but  two  berths.  The  other  had  not  been 
engaged.  He  bought  a  packet  of  cigarettes  from  the 
steward,    and    went    on    deck.     The   passengers    were 


A  STORY  OF  '67  207 

coming  in;  and  he  got  away  into  a  corner,  where  he 
could  see,  without  being  seen.  They  were  the  usual 
types  —  paterfamilias  with  his  little  flock  of  careless 
children,  single  ladies  closely  veiled,  swaggering  com- 
mercial travellers,  who  crossed  over  every  three  months, 
a  few  soldiers,  returning  from  furlough,  etc.  Then 
sauntered  down  slowly,  and  as  if  travelling  was  their 
daily  occupation,  half  a  dozen  stalwart  bronzed  fellows, 
whom  he  easily  recognised  as  cattle-dealers.  They 
had  brought  their  beasts  from  the  rich  plains  of  Cork 
and  Tipperary  to  the  English  market,  and  were  going 
back  with  English  gold  in  their  pockets. 

"I  wonder  if  I  spoke  to  them,  and  told  them  who  I 
was,  would  they  recognise  me?"  he  thought.  But, 
he  was  not  going  to  face  a  rebuff,  and  kept  back  in  the 
shade. 

A  young  waiter  came  up,  napkin  in  hand,  and  said: 

"Will  you  dine,  Sir?     Dinner  on  the  table  at  seven." 

"No,  I  have  dined,"  said  Myles.  "I  suppose  I  can 
have  a  cup  of  tea  later  on?" 

"Certainly,   Sir.     Any  time  after  half-past  eight." 

"When  do  we  start?" 

He  was  eager  to  leave  that  detested  English  shore 
for  ever. 

"Just  off,  Sir!     You  see!" 

And  silently,  slowly,  the  engines  were  pushing  out 
the  boat  from  the  quays;  and  friends  waved  Adieux 
to  friends  on  shore. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Myles,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"Now  for  the  hills  of  Ireland!" 

The  outgoing  tide  swept  them  slowly  down  the 
narrow  channel  between  the  high  cliffs  of  Clifton, 
under  the  lofty  suspension  bridge,  until  the  river 
broadened  out  into  an  estuary,  the  shores  receding  on 


208  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

either  side,  and  the  lights  beginning  to  twinkle  faint 
and  far  and  single  on  the  Cornish  coast;  but  some- 
times in  groups,  as  of  swarms  of  fire-flies,  where  the 
great  towns  of  South  Wales  were  massed  on  the  right 
of  the  channel. 

Myles  had  tea;  and  again  got  back  to  his  little 
retreat  on  the  deck,  unaccosted  and  unnoticed,  as  he 
desired.  There  he  gave  himself  up  to  meditations, 
some  sweet,  some  bitter,  some  hopeful,  but  more 
despondent,  as  he  reviewed  his  past,  and  looked  for- 
ward to  the  future. 

At  ten  o'clock,  he  sought  his  berth,  undressed  par- 
tially, and  lay  down.  The  cool,  night  air  came  in 
through  the  porthole,  and  played  across  his  hair  and 
forehead.  The  crunching  of  the  screw  kept  him 
awake  for  a  little  while;  and  then  he  sank  into  a  deep, 
profound  slumber. 

He  was  awakened  by  sounds  of  swabbing  on  deck; 
and  he  swoke  in  terror.  They  were  the  patter  of  the 
feet  of  the  convicts  on  the  stone  corridor  outside  his 
cell.  The  cabin-door  opened,  and,  mistaking  his  posi- 
tion through  confusion  of  sense  and  habits  of  ten 
years,  he  said: 

"I  slept  out.  Sir;   I  never  heard  the  bell!" 

The  steward  stared  a  little,  and  then  said: 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  a  cup  of  tea,  Sir?" 

In  an  instant,  the  situation  broke  on  his  startled 
senses;  and  alarmed  and  angry  with  himself  at  such 
a  betrayal,  he  stammered: 

"The  very  thing  I  was  going  to  ask  you.  Will  it 
take  long?" 

"Just  a  few  minutes.  Sir.  And  a  biscuit,  or  a  cut  of 
bread  and  butter?" 

"All  right,"  said  Myles.     "Either  will  do." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  209 

The  door  closed;  and  he  lay  back  in  his  berth, 
wondering  at  his  own  folly,  and  wondering  what  the 
man  would  think.  And  then  he  gave  himself  up  to  a 
pleasant  thought,  that  never  more  should  he  hear  the 
horrible  clangour  of  that  morning-bell,  which  tore 
through  his  brain,  and  tortured  his  nerves  at  five 
o'clock  every  day  that  had  dawned  on  him,  and  broken 
the  sweet  forgetfulness  of  sleep  during  all  these  weary 
years. 

The  steward  brought  in  the  tea  and  biscuits;  and 
Myles,  afraid  that  the  man  would  see  and  notice  the 
coarse  shirt  he  wore,  said: 

"Place  it  on  the  pedestal,  till  it  cools.  Where  are 
we?" 

"Off  the  Wexford  coast.  Sir.  We  passed  the  Tuskar 
an  hour  ago." 

"The  night  was  calm?" 

"Not  a  breeze,  Sir.  No  one  sick  on  board  this 
night." 

"And  we  get  to  Cork  —  when?" 

"About  ten  o'clock.  We  have  to  creep  our  way  up 
the  river." 

"Of  course.     At  what  hour  is  breakfast?" 

"Nine  sharp!" 

"But  a  hungry  fellow  could  have  it  at  half-past 
eight,  I  suppose?" 

"  Of  course.     What  will  you  have.  Sir?  " 

"Coffee  and  some  cold  beef  and  ham!" 

"All  right,  Sir!" 

Myles  took  the  tea,  rose  up  and  dressed  and  went 
on  deck.  Everyone  knows  the  delightful  sensation 
of  coming  on  deck  on  a  fine  summer  morning,  watching 
the  foam  speeding  by,  and  drinking  in  draughts  of  cool, 
sweet  air.     Myles  drew  in,  and  filled  his  chest  with 


210  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

volumes  of  that  pure,  clean  air,  allowing  its  salt  to 
sting  him,  and  its  odours  of  brine  and  seaweed  to 
saturate  every  sense.  Then  he  went  to  breakfast, 
and,  as  he  so  much  desired,  he  was  alone. 

When  he  came  on  deck  again,  the  tall  cliffs  of  Bally- 
cotton,  red  and  black  beneath,  but  glittering  on  the 
turf  of  the  summit  with  a  vast  profusion  of  wild  flowers, 
the  yellow  broom  and  the  purple  wild  thyme  conspicu- 
ous amidst  their  more  vulgar  brethren,  rose  right 
above  the  vessel. 

"Ah,  thou  hapless  motherland!"  he  said.  "What 
a  martyrdom  thy  lovers  and  thy  sons  have  to  bear! 
And  yet,  there  is  thy  eternal  magic,  which  brings  us 
back,  willing  slaves,  to  thy  feet  again!" 

In  an  hour,  they  were  off  Cork  Harbour,  the  vessel 
swung  round,  and,  pointing  to  the  north,  sailed  in 
beneath  the  frowning  ramparts  of  Camden  and 
Carlisle. 

As  Myles  watched  with  admiration  the  fine  scene 
that  lay  before  him,  —  the  amphitheatre  of  hills 
surrounding  the  harbour,  the  deep  long  hulls  of  the 
three  and  four-masted  wheat-ships  that  lay  at  anchor, 
the  little  tugs  and  tenders  that  seemed  to  be  flying 
everywhere,  a  voice  behind  him  said: 

"That's  a  gang  of  convicts  crossing  the  gangway  to 
Haulbowline." 

Myles  started  violently,  and  looked  around. 

It  was  an  ordinary  commercial  traveller,  who  called 
his  attention  to  the  long  row  of  prisoners,  who,  in  the 
unmistakable  grey  jackets,  and  with  the  unmistakable 
shuffling  step,  were  moving  slowly  across  the  bridge 
that  connected  Spike  and  Haulbowline. 

It  took  him  a  few  seconds  to  recover  his  composure. 
The  horror  of  the  convict  life  seemed  to  pursue  him. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  211 

Then  he  gazed  steadily,  and  yet  with  some  emotion, 
at  the  prisoners,  and  said: 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes,"  continued  the  man,  "that  is  Spike  Island. 
You  were  never  round  there  before,  Sir?" 

"Never,"  said  Myles.  "I  have  been  away  for  ten 
years  and  am  returning  to  see  Ireland  once  more," 

"You'll  find  a  good  many  changes  in  ten  years,  Sir!" 

"I  fear  so,"  said  Myles, 

"In  fact  everything  is  changing,"  said  tTie  man, 
puffing  away  at  a  huge  cigar  whilst  he  spoke.  "The 
Government  now  are  about  to  deport  these  convicts 
to  Portland  or  Dartmoor,  and  fortify  the  place.  The 
harbour  then  will  be  absolutely  impregnable." 

At  the  mention  of  "Dartmoor,"  Myles  flushed  up, 
and  darted  an  angry  look  at  the  man.  But  evidently 
nothing  was  meant.     And  Myles  said: 

"When  that  takes  place.  Spike  Island  will  only  be 
remembered  as  the  place  where  Mitchell  spent  two  days 
before  his  deportation  to  Van  Diemen's  Land;  and 
where  Edward  Walsh  stole  in  in  the  twilight,  and 
touched  his  hand,  and  said:  'Mitchell,  you  are  the 
one  man  I  envy  in  Ireland  tonight.'" 

"Indeed,"  said  the  traveller.  "I  never  heard. 
That  was  a  long  time  ago,  I  suppose?" 

"So  long  it  seems  to  be  forgotten,"  said  Myles. 

"Good-morning,  Sir,"  said  the  man,  stiffly,  and 
moved  away. 

When  they  arrived  at  Cork,  Myles  hastened  to  a 
hotel.  He  wanted  a  clean  shave,  for  his  white  beard 
had  grown,  a  good  wash,  and  a  lunch  that  would  answer 
for  dinner. 

When  he  had  shaved,  he  drew  the  mirror  near  the 
window,  and  started  back  at  the  dread  change. 


212  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"My  own  mother  wouldn't  know  me!"  he  thought. 
"I  shouldn't  have  shaved!" 

But  it  was  done;  and  his  one  thought  then  was, 
how  would  Agnes  bear  it. 

He  went  to  the  railway  station,  saw  a  head-line  on 
the  posters: 

"Last  of  the  Fenian  prisoners  released!" 
bought   a  paper,  and  after  much  searching  found  in 
an  obscure  end  of  a  column: 

"We  understand  that  the  last  of  the  Fenian  prison- 
ers, Cogan,  was  released  from  Dartmoor  yesterday. 
Some  will  remember  that  Cogan  was  sentenced  to 
death  ten  years  ago,  and  that  the  capital  sentence  was 
committed  to  penal  servitude  for  life." 

That  was  all.  The  word  "Cogan,"  the  easy  way  in 
which  all  his  ten  long  years  of  horror  were  spoken  of; 
the  insignificance  of  his  release,  and  the  unimportance 
of  the  whole  affair,  hurt  him  deeply. 

"Yea,  this  is  my  reward,"  he  said  bitterly,  as  he 
took  his  seat  in  the  railway  carriage.  "This  is  the 
people  for  whom  poor  Halpin  said  a  life  might  be 
given  cheerfully." 

Then  the  loneliness  of  the  Irish  landscape  smote 
him,  and  sank  his  spirits  deeper.  The  long,  receding 
fields,  half-scorched  by  the  summer  sun,  the  tiny 
rivulets  that  crept  exhausted  down  the  cliffs,  the 
absence  of  human  habitations,  the  whole  country 
seeming  to  be  inhabited  only  by  sheep  and  oxen,  the 
miserable  ruins  of  mud  cabins  and  the  more  melancholy 
remains  of  crumbling  abbeys  and  castles;  and,  above 
all,  that  lonely,  melancholy  atmosphere  that  seems 
to  hang  down  over  Ireland,  even  on  a  summer  day, 
plunged  him  in  a  kind  of  stupid  sorrow  that  was  very 
near  to  tears. 


A  STORY  OF  'G7  213 

He  was  tired,  weary,  and  disheartened  when  he 
reached  the  station  at  Kilmorna.  He  passed  out 
unnoticed  and  unknown,  flung  his  valise  on  a  side-car, 
and  said: 

"Millbank!" 

The  driver  looked  at  him  with  that  glance  of  sus- 
picious curiosity  that  is  so  common  in  Ireland;  and 
several  times  as  they  drove  along  the  mile  of  road  to 
Millbank,  Myles  felt  that  the  fellow's  eyes  were  study- 
ing him  keenly.  He  knew  the  lad  well.  He  was  one 
of  the  "byes"  that  went  out  with  himself  in  '67.  But 
he  was  too  dispirited  to  take  notice;  and  he  was 
anxious  to  avoid  recognition  and  to  secure  a  little 
quiet  at  any  cost. 

At  last  they  drew  up  at  the  little  iron  gate.  It  was 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon!  Yes!  there  was  the 
same  old  house,  the  same  gravelled  walk,  the  same 
shrubs  on  either  side.  He  dismounted,  paid  the  driver, 
whose  curiosity  was  now  excited  to  the  utmost,  and 
who  drew  his  car  along  the  road,  and  between  some 
trees  where  he  could  make  observations.  Myles  went 
slowly  up  the  walk,  and  knocked.  A  strange  servant 
opened  the  door,  stared  at  him  when  he  asked  for  Miss 
Cogan,  and  left  him  standing  in  the  hall.  In  a  few 
moments,  Agnes  came  down  stairs.  Years  and  trouble 
had  changed  her  but  little.  She  made  a  little  bow  to 
the  stranger;  and,  as  he  said  nothing,  she  scrutinised 
him  more  closely.  Then,  with  a  little  scream  of  terror 
and  delight,  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  drew 
down  his  face  to  hers,  and  kissed  it  passionately;  and 
then  ran  away,  and  buried  her  face  in  a  sofa  pillow, 
unable  to  control  her  anguish. 

The  driver,  who  had  been  watching  the  little  drama, 
now   came  to   his   own   conclusion;    and   flinging   his 


214  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

whip  on  the  cushions,  and  not  caring  what  became  of 
horse  or  car,  he  tore  up  the  gravelled  walk,  grasped 
Myles  Cogan's  hand,  and  shook  it  as  if  he  would  dis- 
locate it,  muttering: 

"Wisha,  damn  your  sowl,  Myles  Cogan  —  what  a 
way  you  have  threated  us  after  all  our  waiting!  Sure 
we  thought  you  wor  comin'  around  by  Dublin  and 
that  a  hundred  thousand  men  would  meet  you!  Oh! 
Mother  of  God!  What  a  skeleton  these  English  devils 
have  made  of  you!  But  wait.  Master  Myles!  Miss 
Agnes,"  he  cried,  raising  his  voice," don't  let  Masther 
Myles  go  to  bed  too  early  tonight.  I'm  goin'  to  rouse 
the  five  parishes  round;  and  the  divil  such  a  sight 
was  never  seen  before  — " 

"Now,  now,  Jem,"  said  Myles,  "I'm  very  weak;  and 
I  want  rest  badly." 

"And  you'll  have  plinty  of  it,  Masther  Myles,  but, 
begor,  you  can't  cheat  us  in  that  way.  Good-bye 
till  eight  o'clock." 

And  surely  enough  at  eight  o'clock,  a  vast  concourse 
of  people  did  gather  around  the  gate  at  Mill''  T>k.  The 
upper  classes  kept  aloof  —  professior .  n  >?_i,  rich 
shopkeepers,  to  whom  the  word  "Fenian"  was  an 
abomination.  But  the  people  were  there  —  all  his 
old  comrades,  who  turned  away  weeping  when  they 
saw  his  cadaverous  features,  young  lads,  who  had 
heard  their  fathers  speak  of  him;  women  with  children 
in  their  arms,  whom  they  bade  to  look  up  and  see  the 
Fenian  Chief,  and  the  man,  who  had  "suffered  for  his 
country."  The  police,  too,  were  there  with  their 
note-books,  for  Myles  Cogan  was  but  a  ticket-of-leave 
man.  But  he  was  too  weak  and  dispirited  to  talk 
treason.  He  said  a  few  words  of  thanks,  told  them 
that    he    was    unchanged    and    unchangeable,     spoke 


A  STORY  OF  '67  215 

generously  of  his  old  comrades  and  the  men  who  had 
gone  to  prison  with  him,  and  retired. 

Later  on,  Father  James  came  up.  He  grasped  the 
hand  of  the  lad  he  had  known  from  infancy,  said  a  few 
cheery  words;  and  then,  seeing  the  terrible  change 
wrought  in  the  handsome  boy  he  had  known,  his  voice 
broke,  and  he  sank  into  a  chair  and  wept. 


BOOK  II 


BOOK  II 
XXXI 

And  now  commenced  for  Myles  Cogan  a  stiff  strug- 
gle for  life.  His  business  had  gone  down  rapidly  dur- 
ing his  imprisonment,  the  weak  hands  of  a  young  girl 
being  unable  to  control  or  maintain  it.  Most  of  his 
customers  had  gone  over  to  his  rival,  bimpson  from 
Sligo,  who  had  brought  in  new  ideas  and  new  methods 
from  the  pushing  North.  It  needed  all  the  fierce 
threats  of  his  old  Fenians  to  keep  the  men  at  work  at 
the  Mill,  higher  wages  and  better  terms  being  offered 
from  the  other  side;  and,  whilst  the  country  people 
stood  valiantlj''  by  the  old  house,  and  still  purchased 
there  their  flour  and  meal  and  bran  and  pollard,  many 
of  the  townsfolk  abandoned  the  shop,  and  went  else- 
where. A  few  of  the  gentry,  notwithstanding  their 
aversion  to  Fenianism,  stood  gallantly  by  the  young 
girl  who  seemed  so  helpless;  and  these  few  helpers 
alone  kept  the  firm  from  bankruptcy. 

Myles  cordially  approved  of  Father  James'  advice 
against  selling  the  estate,  although  he  was  now  pre- 
pared at  any  moment  to  see  Agnes  realising  all  her 
day-dreams  by  entering  a  convent. 

He  took  off  his  coat  gallantly,  however,  and  bent 
himself  with  free  valour  to  the  task  that  lay  before 
him.  And,  without  for  a  moment  condescending  to 
seek  custom  from  those  who  had  abandoned  him,  he 
managed  by  careful  advertisement  to  win  back  a  good 


220  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

many  of  his  former  supporters;  and,  after  a  little 
time,  he  began  to  see  that  his  business  could  be  made  a 
paying  one  again.  The  one  thing  that  galled  him 
was  his  monthly  report  at  the  police-office  as  a  ticket- 
of-leave  man;  but  here  the  Serjeant  came  to  his  relief 
by  appointing  a  meeting  once  a  month  on  the  bridge, 
where  Myles  formally  reported  himself. 

His  inner  life  had  undergone  a  complete  transforma- 
tion. Deprived  of  the  consolations  of  religion  in  prison, 
he  realised  their  importance  now;  and  he  threw  him- 
self into  the  work  of  personal  sanctification  with  a  zest 
and  zeal  that  astonished  his  sister  and  Father  James. 

"He'll  wind  up  in  Melleray,"  said  Father  James, 
one  day  in  his  hearing. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Myles.  "Every 
Irishman  is  born  a  soldier  or  a  monk.  I  have  been 
the  former.  Maybe  I  shall  put  on  the  cowl  before 
I  die." 

He  resolutely,  however,  refused  any  honours  or 
positions  in  the  different  societies  or  confraternities 
which  he  joined.  He  preferred,  he  said,  to  serve  in  the 
ranks.  Many  of  his  old  comrades,  who  had  been 
imbued  with  the  anti-clerical  spirit  since  '67,  resenting 
the  interference  of  the  church,  and  who  had  therefore 
abstained  from  the  Sacraments,  he  brought  back  and 
reconciled  with  the  Church.  He  helped  on  Young 
Men's  Societies,  Hurling  Clubs,  Coursing  Clubs,  but 
again,  he  refused  all  municipal  offers.  He  had  no 
ambition,  he  said. 

And  as  all  the  old  fierce  passionate  love  for  Ireland 
was  undimmed  and  undiminished,  although  he  knew 
that  the  dream  of  independence  was  impracticable,  he 
watched  the  political  movements  of  the  time  with 
interest,  but  without  sympathy. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  221 

All  the  energies  of  the  nation  seemed  now  concen- 
trated in  securing  the  land  of  the  country  for  the  farmers. 
The  three  F's  was  the  political  cry  of  the  moment. 
No  one  could  foresee  the  tremendous  revolution  that 
was  impending,  with  all  the  vast  train  of  consequences, 
moral  and  material,  which  it  entailed.  Myles  had 
no  sympathy  with  it.  He  hated  tyranny  in  any  shape 
or  form,  and  would  gladly  break  down  the  domination 
of  any  class;  but  it  was  a  sectional  and  local  patriotism 
which  did  not  appeal  to  him.  To  his  consternation  he 
beheld  one  day  the  old  flag  with  its  watchword:  "Ire- 
land for  the  Irish"  pulled  down,  and  the  new  standard 
with  its  more  selfish  motto:  "The  Land  for  the  people" 
erected  for  the  guidance  of  the  nation.  And  who  had 
done  it?  Verily,  his  brother  Fenian,  and  fellow-convict 
in  Dartmoor,  McDermot.  And  sure  enough  the  war- 
cry  caught  on.  The  heather  was  ablaze,  and  the 
conflagration  spread  like  a  prairie-fire.  The  appeal 
was  made  to  the  interests  of  four  hundred  thousand  men 
and  their  families;  and  they  flung  the  three  F's  to 
the  wind,  and  demanded  that  all  dual  ownership  should 
cease.  The  Gall  should  go,  and  the  Gael  come  in  to 
his  rightful  inheritance. 

One  Sunday  morning,  Myles  received  a  brief  note 
from  McDermot,  asking  him  to  meet  the  latter  at 
Kilmorna  station,  where  he  would  arrive  exactly  at 
twelve  o'clock,  on  his  way  to  address  a  monster  meet- 
ing at  a  place  about  six  miles  distant. 

Myles  had  seen  little  of  McDermot  in  Dartmoor, 
the  discipline  particularly  exercised  towards  keeping 
the  Fenians  apart,  being  very  strict.  They  could  not 
help,  however,  seeing  each  other  at  work,  in  chapel, 
and  in  the  exercise  ground.     McDermot,  crushed  to 


222  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

pieces  himself,  and  enduring  his  own  crucifixion,  did 
not  know  the  extent  of  Myles  Cogan's  sufferings,  until 
the  released  Fenians  gave  to  the  world  that  sad  record 
of  human  brutality.  But  now  he  was  eager  to  see  him, 
and  to  enlist  his  influence  on  the  side  he  had  chosen. 

Myles  was  at  the  station  punctually.  There  was 
a  vast  crowd,  with  waving  banners,  brass  bands  and 
reed  bands;  and  a  strong  body  of  police  in  their  great 
coats,  their  ammunition  slung  around  their  necks,  and 
the  butts  of  their  rifles  resting  on  the  ground. 

McDermot  courteously  acknowledged  the  cheers  and 
plaudits  of  the  multitude;  but  looking  around  anx- 
iously, he  saw  Myles  and  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and 
said: 

"Come  in  here  to  the  refreshment-room.  We  shall 
be  alone,  and  I  have  much  to  say.  I  must  have  some- 
thing to  eat  against  the  day;  and  we  can  talk  in  the 
meantime!" 

The  two  men  went  in.  The  meal  was  ordered;  and 
without  any  preliminary,  McDermot  said: 

"I  want  you  to  join  us!" 

"Quite  impossible!"  said  Myles. 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  seems  a  departure  from  all  our  principles." 

"I  cannot  see  that.     How?" 

"Our  first  principle  always  has  been  to  band  all 
Irishmen  together,  and  not  to  set  class  against  class." 

"True;  and  for  what  purpose?" 

"To  make  Ireland  a  nation,  of  course!" 

"You  cherish  that  idea  still?" 

"Certainly,  although  I  have  abandoned  the  idea  of 
separation.     In  fact,  I  never  entertained  it!" 

"T  remember,"  said  ^McDermot.  "You  said  as 
much  in  your  speech  from  the  dock.     But,  how  can 


A  STORY  OF  '67  223 

you  make  Ireland  a  nation  with  an  English  garrison 
in  your  midst,  hostile  to  all  the  aims  and  aspirations 
of  the  people?" 

"They  think  they  are  Irishmen,  and  have  a  right 
to  live  in  Ireland,  I  suppose.  If  England  protects  them 
in  saving  their  property,  how  can  you  blame  them  if 
they  look  to  England?" 

"Yes!  But,  if  they,  clinging  to  the  old  ideas  of 
ascendancy,  and  not  seeing,  or  rather  refusing  to  see, 
the  change  in  the  economic  conditions  of  the  time, 
persist  in  demanding  rents  which  the  land  cannot  bear, 
and  are  prepared  to  exterminate  our  people  if  they 
cannot  meet  their  unjust  demands,  can  we  regard  them 
any  longer  as  Irishmen,  and  not  as  wolves  that  must 
be  hunted  down  at  any  cost?" 

Myles  was  staggered.  He  saw  he  had  been  dream- 
ing; and  stern,  daylight  facts  were  placed  under  his 
eyes.     McDermot  saw  it,  and  persisted: 

"Are  you  prepared  to  see  the  whole  Catholic  Celtic 
population  exterminated?" 

"No!  But  neither  am  I  prepared  to  sanction  in- 
justice. You  are  seeking  to  promote  a  just  cause  by 
ignoble  means." 

"How?" 

"By  the  breaking  of  contracts,  the  subversion  of 
society,  the  possibility  of  crime — " 

"Cogan,  were  you  a  Fenian?"  said  McDermot. 

"I  think  I  was,"  said  Myles.  "But  the  Fenians  com- 
mitted no  crimes.  They  went  out  in  the  open  field, 
prepared  to  give  a  life  for  a  life.  They  never  fired 
into  unprotected  houses,  nor  docked  the  tails  of  cattle, 
nor  cut  off  the  hair  of  young  girls.     McDermot  —  " 

"  Well?  Be  brief.  My  time  is  short,  and  I  am  wast- 
ing it,"  said  McDermot,  peevishly. 


224  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Beware!  You  are  an  honourable  man;  and,  if  I 
mistake  not,  a  thoroughly  conscientious  man.  Think 
—  Will  the  material  benefit  accruing  to  the  farmers  of 
Ireland  balance  the  moral  deterioration  that  must 
follow,  when  you  appeal  only  to  selfish  instincts?" 

"Good-bye,  Cogan  —  " 

"A  moment!     Have  you  thought  it  over?" 

"Thought  it  over?  Good  heavens,  man,  whatever 
else  was  I  thinking  of  over  there  in  Dartmoor,  night 
and  day,  for  ten  years?  Do  you  think  I  wouldn't 
have  gone  mad,  as  you  did,  if  I  had  not  one  hope  to 
build  on,  one  grand  project  to  effect?  Out  on  the 
moors,  in  the  dark  cells,  even  at  Mass,  God  forgive 
me!  did  that  thought  ever  leave  my  mind,  that  I  would 
strike  England  in  her  most  vulnerable  part,  and,  by 
driving  out  the  landlords,  sap  the  very  foundations  of 
British  power  in  Ireland?  Yes!  My  patient  hate  is 
bearing  fruit.  Do  you  see  those  men  outside?  They 
are  but  a  handful  to  the  thousands  who  will  throng 
around  me  this  afternoon  to  hear  their  gospel  of 
redemption.  And  you  won't  come?  I  had  hoped  to 
have  you  standing  by  my  side  to  revenge  Dartmoor. 
Well,  your  blood  is  tamer  than  mine,  though  you 
suffered  more.  When  the  last  shoneen  takes  his 
ticket  at  Kingstown,  and  the  people,  our  people,  our 
dear  Catholic  people,  can  see  the  smoke,  rising  from 
their  chimneys  without  fear  that  the  agent  can  see  it, 
then  I'll  sing  my  Nunc  Dimittis,  for  I  shall  have  shewn 
England  what  convict  123  could  do.     Good-bye!" 

He  turned  away;    but  came  back. 

"You  were  born  in  ease,  Cogan,  the  son  of  a  rich 
merchant,  I  believe.  I  was  born  in  a  poor  farmer's 
cottage;  and  even  that  was  not  left  us.  I  saw  my 
father    and    mother    flung    out    on    the    road    in    the 


A"  STORY  OF  '67  225 

snow.     Do  you  think  I  have  ever  forgotten;   can  ever 
forget?" 

Myles  turned  away.  Pathetic  though  the  picture 
was  which  McDermot  summoned  up,  somehow  it 
revealed  the  personal  note  of  revenge;  and  McDermot 
fell  in  his  esteem. 


XXXII 

But  McDermot  did  himself  injustice  by  such  words; 
and  he  did  himself  double  injustice  in  the  opening 
sentence  of  his  speech  that  day  at  the  great  tenant- 
right  meeting  — 

"We,  Irishmen,  have  one  great  fault  —  we  are  too 
ready  to  forgive  and  forget." 

It  would  seem  then  that  the  driving  power  behind 
that  vast  organisation  which  he  was  building  up  with 
such  pains,  and  which  eventually  drove  him  back  to 
Dartmoor,  was  hate  — 

The  patient  hate,  and  vigil  long 
Of  him,  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 

It  is  a  Celtic  characteristic;  and  McDermot  was  a 
Celt  of  the  Celts.  And  yet,  one  would  rather  believe 
that  it  was  for  a  higher  motive  than  mere  revenge  he 
brooded  over  that  tremendous  plan  which  resulted  in 
the  emancipation  of  the  Irish  serfs.  At  least,  it  was  a 
vigorous  and  comprehensive  intellect  that  devised  it, 
and  then  helped,  under  all  manner  of  toil  and  suffering, 
to  see  it  carried  to  its  ultimate  issue.  Yet,  there  was 
a  great  deal  in  that  last  remark  he  addressed  to  Myles. 
It  will  be  found  that  the  more  comprehensive  idea  of 
Irish  nationhood  has  always  been  cherished  by  the 
dwellers  in  the  towns  and  cities  of  Ireland.  To  them 
Ireland  has  been  a  whole  —  a  homogeneous  entity  to 
be  welded  more  and  more  until  it  took  on  the  consis- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  227 

tency  of  a  nation.     The  people  of  fioeks  and  herds  can 
only  conceive  of  patriotism,  as  it  affects  the  land. 

Myles  went  home,  saddened  after  the  brief  interview. 
Clearly,  he  could  take  no  further  part  in  the  doings  of 
the  nation.  Its  new  ambition  never  reached  up  to  his 
high  ideals. 

In  another  way  he  was  convinced  by  a  rude  shock 
that  the  political  arena  was  not  for  him. 

Mr.  Fottrel  had  returned  from  his  American  trip, 
where  he  had  gathered  some  thousands  of  pounds  for 
the  relief  of  the  distressed  Irish.  He  had  not  quite 
reached  that  giddy  summit  from  which  he  fell  so  dis- 
astrously; but  he  had  acquired  sufficient  popularity 
and  power  to  assume  all  the  manner  of  a  Dictator. 

The  Fenians  in  the  North  of  England,  especially  in 
Lancashire,  had  long  cherished  the  idea  of  seeing  a  real, 
live  convict  on  the  floor  of  the  House  of  Commons; 
and  if  he  could  appear  in  his  ticket-of-leave  garb,  all 
the  better. 

Hence,  one  morning,  Myles  received  a  sealed  docu- 
ment which  he  was  ordered  to  present  to  Mr.  Fottrel 
at  a  convention  which  was  to  be  held  in  Athlone  at  an 
early  date.  Myles  did  not  love  Fottrel.  He  only 
saw  in  him  an  ambitious  man,  who,  by  a  certain  glamour 
of  birth,  and  by  the  unmistakable  services  he  rendered 
to  the  people,  seemed  anxious  to  assume  supreme  power, 
and  to  destroy  the  last  vestiges  of  individual  liberty. 

"God  knows,"  he  thought  bitterly,  "these  poor 
serfs  have  never  been  able  to  hold  themselves  straight, 
or  to  assume  the  attitude  of  freemen;  but  just  now  the 
man  puts  his  foot  on  their  necks,  and  drives  them  into 
an  attitude  of  subjection  worse  than  ever." 

He  attended  the  Convention,  however.     Everything 


228  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

went  smoothly,  until  the  name  of  a  person,  rather 
obnoxious  to  the  clergy,  was  proposed  as  Parliamentary 
Candidate.  A  little  group  of  priests,  huddled  together 
in  a  corner  of  the  platform,  made  a  weak  murmur  of 
dissent.  Fottrel  raised  a  small  white  hand,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  disaffected  clergy  he  said: 

"Gentlemen,  let  us  be  unanimous!"  And  they 
meekly  bowed  before  him. 

Myles  saw  the  little  incident,  and  drew  his  own 
conclusions.  Evidently,  to  be  unanimous  was  every- 
thing. Private  judgment  and  human  liberty  were  at 
an  end. 

He  waited  his  opportunity.  The  members  of  the 
Convention  had  dispersed  and  Myles  waited  in  the 
passage.  Presently,  Fottrel  came  along,  arm  in  arm 
with  one  of  his  supporters.  Myles  stepped  forth  and 
raised  his  hat.  Fottrel  stared  at  him  in  a  half-con- 
scious manner  for  a  moment  —  and  passed  on.  Mylesj 
stung  by  the  supposed  affront,  followed,  and  tapping 
Fottrel  on  the  shoulder  he  said  angrily: 

"You'll  probably  have  better  manners  when  you 
read  this  letter." 

Fottrel  broke  the  seal,  but  in  a  reluctant  manner. 
He  cast  his  eyes  along  the  document  and  studied  the 
names  at  the  end.  Then  suddenly  changing  his  whole 
tone,  he  shook  Myles  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  asked 
him  to  dinner  at  the  Shannon  Hotel.  Myles  declined, 
and  went  home. 

A  few  weeks  later  he  had  a  communication  from  a 
leading  politician  in  the  little  borough  of  B — town, 
informing  him  that,  at  the  command  of  Mr.  Fottrel, 
he  was  to  be  nominated  for  that  borough  on  the  follow- 
ing Tuesday,  and  there  would  be  no  opposition.  Myles 
took  his  pen,  and  promptly  wrote: 


A  STORY  OF  '67  229 

"Sir  — 

'7  have  received  your  letter,  informing  me  that,  by  com- 
mand of  Mr.  Fottrel,  I  am  to  be  nominated  member  for 
your  borough  next  Tuesday.  I  have  no  wish  for  Parlia- 
mentary honours,  and  I  am  doubtful  if  I  coidd  ever  take 
the  oath  of  allegiance  to  England.  Nevertheless,  if  I  am 
nominated  as  member  for  your  Borough,  not  at  the  dicta- 
tion of  an  individual,  but  by  the  unanimous,  or  quasi- 
unanimous,  votes  of  your  constituency,  free  from  all  bias 
and  frotn  all  coercion,  I  shall  give  the  matter  sympa- 
thetic consideration. 

*' Yours  truly, 

"Myles  Cogan." 

He  heard  no  more  of  the  matter.  In  a  few  weeks, 
an  unknown  man  was  elected  member  for  B — town. 
Some  few  burghers  murmured;  but  the  nation  had 
spoken,  and  elected  its  King. 

What  then  were  Myles  Cogan's  political  principles? 
Clearly  he  had  no  idea  of  practical  politics,  —  of  that 
game  of  skill  and  science  the  wide  world  over  where  all 
principles  of  probity  and  truth  are  cast  to  the  winds, 
and  the  whole  thing  resolves  itself  into  a  mimic  war- 
fare of  plot  and  counterplot,  of  skilful  lying  and  dis- 
honest appeals  to  the  worst,  because  most  selfish, 
interests  of  the  people;  and  where,  eventually,  the 
most  eloquent  or  the  most  unscrupulous  leader  will 
command  the  admiration  and  suffrages  of  the  multi- 
tude. It  was  all  pitiful;  and  Myles  saw  how  complete 
must  be  the  demoralisation  of  any  nation  under  such 
agencies.  But,  he  could  only  stand  aloof,  and  eat  his 
heart  in  silence.  His  dream  of  a  united  Ireland,  all 
classes  agreeing  to  sink  their  differences  in  a  cordial 
acknowledgment  of  the  nation's  claims;   his  fond  hope 


230  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

that  Ireland  would  keep  aloof  from  the  material  degra- 
dation of  other  nations,  and  be,  what  she  had  always 
been,  a  centre  of  spiritual  and  intellectual  illumination 
to  a  world  living  in  darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death, 
was  not  to  be  realised.  He  saw  his  great  race  aban- 
doning all  the  splendid,  if  phantasmal,  idealism  of  the 
past,  and  hungering  after  the  fieshpots  of  the  successful 
but  degraded  nations  of  the  earth.  And  there  was  no 
help.  Not  a  voice  was  raised  to  recall  the  nation  to 
its  old  sense  of  honour;  not  an  organ  of  public  opinion 
dared  express  a  single  sentiment  that  would  breathe 
of  the  old  and  sacred  independence  that  sanctified 
the  individual,  and  saved  the  nation  from  corruption. 
Myles  felt  he  stood  almost  alone,  wrapped  up  in  the  old 
idealism  of  Mitchell  and  Davis.  He  clung  to  a  dis- 
honoured creed;  and  refused  to  apostatise,  even  though 
the  whole  country  ran  after  the  gods  of  Baal. 


XXXIII 

Once  he  broke  silence  and  reserve,  and  launched  out 
into  a  furious  philippic  against  the  Moonlighters  and 
Rapparees  of  the  period.  Some  English  papers  attrib- 
uted the  murders  and  moonlight  outrages,  which 
then  were  dishonouring  the  land,  to  a  remnant  of 
Fenians,  who  still  clung  to  the  old  idea  of  separation. 
Myles  was  wroth  at  this.  He  had  trust  in  the  honour 
of  his  old  comrades;  and  he  could  never  bring  himself 
to  believe  that  the  men  of  '67  would  descend  to  the 
commission  of  crime,  which  was  made  still  more  loath- 
some by  its  very  meanness.  Charles  Kickham  had 
issued  a  mild  protest  to  the  papers  in  the  same  sense. 
Myles  wrote  a  letter  flaming  with  wrath  and  outraged 
honour. 

"I  can  only  speak  with  certainty,'"  ran  one  para- 
graph, "of  the  men  under  my  command  and  that  of  my 
brave  comrade,  Halpin,  and  I  can  testify  that  amongst 
these  hundreds,  who  went  out  that  night  of  March 
5th,  1867,  and  left  behind  them  home,  and  wives,  and 
children,  not  a  man  thought  of  himself,  or  what  he  was 
to  gain  by  it;  not  a  man  had  an  idea  but  of  striking  a 
blow  for  Ireland's  independence.  There  was  no 
thought  of  revenge  or  reprisals  or  gain.  When  the 
police-barracks  at  Ballynockin  were  set  on  fire,  the 
Fenians  took  care  that  the  women  and  children  were 
safe;  and  when  Father  Daly  came  up,  and  asked 
Captain  Mackay  if  he  would  save  the  lives  of  the  police 


232  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

if  they  surrendered,  did  not  Mackay  place  his  revolver 
in  the  priest's  hand,  and  bade  him  shoot  him,  if  a  hair 
of  their  heads  was  injured?  And  do  the  public  think 
that  men  of  that  calibre  would  stoop  to  the  commis- 
sion of  low  crimes  of  paltry  revenge?  Can  anyone 
believe  that  these  patriots  of  '67  were  the  men  that 
cut  out  the  tongues  of  cattle,  and  docked  the  tails  of 
horses,  and  shattered  the  limbs  of  innocent  men?  No! 
They  might  have  been  mistaken  in  their  idea  of  an 
emancipated  Ireland.  The  world  may  call  their  action 
folly  —  or  madness;  but  no  one  shall  ever  dare  impute 
to  them  criminality,  or  base  motives  of  greed  and 
revenge.  Enthusiasts,  fanatics  —  as  you  please:  crim- 
inals. No!  They  never  soiled  their  flag  with  crime. 
The  wild  justice  of  revenge  was  never  a  Fenian  virtue!" 

"That's  all  very  well,  Myles,"  said  Father  James, 
after  congratulating  the  writer  on  his  loyalty  to  his 
fellows.  "But  what  about  Clerkenwell?  and  what 
about  the  Phoenix  Park?" 

"I'm  surprised  at  you.  Father  James,  not  to  know 
better,"  said  Myles,  hotly.  "Everyone  knows  that 
that  Clerkenwell  explosion  which  pulled  down  the 
Irish  Church  Establishment  was  a  piece  of  utter  stu- 
pidity. Two  or  three  fellows,  believing  that  their 
comrades  were  behind  the  prison  wall,  wanted  to  make 
a  breach  there,  so  that  they  could  step  out,  and  be 
free.  They  had  no  more  idea  of  the  power  of  the 
explosive  they  used  than  a  child  knows  of  dynamite. 
Why,  if  the  prisoners  had  been  in  the  yard  at  the 
time,  they  would  have  been  blown  to  atoms.  It  was 
a  piece  of  stupid  folly,  that  entailed  frightful  conse- 
quences. As  to  the  Invincibles,  they  were  no  more 
Fenians  than  you  are.  They  couldn't  have  been. 
They  were  all  young  men,  some  of  them  boys;   and  as 


A  STORY  OF  '67  233 

there  were  fifteen  years  between  '67  and  '82,  they  could 
never  have  been  in  our  ranks.  That's  conclusive 
enough;  but  I  prefer  to  fall  back  on  firmer  ground 
even  —  that  is,  that  no  Fenian,  that  I  ever  knew, 
could  be  guilty  of  any  participation  in  that  awful  and 
dastardly  crime.  It  was  the  act  of  butchers,  not  of 
soldiers!  No!  Let  our  poor  fellows  stand  or  fall 
by  their  principles.  We  listen  to  no  voice  but  that 
of  the  motherland." 

''She  is  a  barren  motherland,"  said  Father  James, 
moodily. 

"Father  James,"  said  Myles,  standing  and  confront- 
ing his  friend,  —  they  were  walking  along  the  high 
road  that  led  towards  the  Shannon,  "what  have  you 
said?     What  treason  is  this?" 

"No  treason,  but  truth,"  the  priest  said  bitterly. 
The  crimes,  which  then  were  staining  the  country 
— above  all,  that  supreme  crime  in  the  Phoenix  Park — 
had  embittered  him,  and  depressed  him,  as  they  embit- 
tered and  depressed  many  a  brave  priest  throughout 
Ireland.  "What  are  we  producing  but  a  crop  of  mur- 
ders and  meaner  crimes?  Surely,  no  nation  marched  to 
freedom  through  such  means  as  these." 

"We  agree!"  said  Myles,  in  an  altered  tone. 

"Now,  look,"  said  Father  James.  "I'm  a  poor, 
ignorant  priest.  I  know  Latin  enough  to  say  Mass, 
and  read  my  breviary." 

"  You  are  always  depreciating  yourself,  Father  James. 
That's  not  the  opinion  of  your  brethren." 

"No  matter,"  said  the  priest,  "so  long  as  I  can  see 
things  with  my  two  eyes.  We  have  no  great  men. 
For  sixty  years  we  have  not  produced  a  decent  artist 
—  that  is,  since  Maclise  died;  nor  a  single  sculptor, 
since  Hogan  died;  nor  a  single  architect,  since  Barry 


234  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

died.  We  have  had  one  historian,  Lecky;  not  a  poet, 
not  a  classical  scholar,  nor  a  great  engineer.  In  the 
arts  and  sciences,  in  everything  that  tends  to  exalt 
and  ennoble  a  nation,  we  are  barren  as  the  desert  of 
Sahara." 

"I  confess  it  never  struck  me  in  that  light  before," 
said  Myles,  thoughtfully,  "probably,  because  I  was 
immersed  in  politics  myself.  How  do  you  account  for 
it?     And  never  say  again,  you  are  an  ignorant  man." 

"Well,  I  am  —  ignorant  enough,  God  knows!"  said 
Father  James.  "But  one  of  these  travelling  book- 
agents  came  around  me  with  his  soft  sawder  some 
time  ago,  and  got  me  to  invest  in  some  sort  of  an 
Encyclopaedia.  So  I  sometimes  take  it  up,  and  it 
sets  me  thinking.     Come  in  here  for  a  moment." 

They  were  passing  a  country  National  School,  and 
the  burr  of  a  hundred  voices  came  out  on  the  soft,  still 
air.  They  entered;  and  after  a  few  minutes.  Father 
James  asked  the  master,  a  young,  intelligent  fellow, 
to  call  up  the  Sixth  Class.  A  dozen  lads  ranged  them- 
selves around. 

"How  many  books  of  Euclid  have  they  mastered?" 
said  the  priest. 

"Three,  Sir!"  said  the  teacher. 

"Now  boys,  get  your  slates!"  said  the  priest. 

They  produced  their  slates,  spat  on  them,  rubbed 
them  with  their  coat-sleeves,  and  stood  erect. 

The  priest  took  the  chalk,  and  marked  on  the  black- 
board a  simple  problem,  or  exercise.  The  teacher 
interposed. 

"They  are  not  in  the  habit  of  doing  cuts,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

The  teacher  looked  abashed  for  the  moment.  Then 
he  said: 


A  STORY  OF  '67  235 

"We  don't  teach  cuts  in  Euclid.  In  fact,  the  boys 
could  not  bear  such  application,  and  we  have  no  time." 

"But  that  is  the  only  way  to  train  the  intellect," 
said  the  priest. 

"I  am  aware,  Sir,  and  that  was  the  case  formerly. 
It  can't  be  done,  now." 

"Why,  I  remember,"  continued  the  priest,  "when 
our  heads  were  full  of  mathematical  problems  all  day 
long;  and  we  went  to  sleep,  dreaming  of  the  trisection 
of  an  angle." 

"So  I  heard,"  said  the  teacher.  "But  these  lads 
would  be  only  fit  for  an  idiot  ward,  if  we  put  them 
through  such  discipline  as  that." 

"The  brain-power  of  the  nation  is  weakened,  then?" 
said  the  priest. 

"Perhaps!"  said  the  teacher,  dubiously.  "But  the 
children  are  smarter  —  " 

"And  more  superficial?" 

"We  must  go  with  the  times.  Sir!"  said  the  teacher. 
"With  twenty-three  subjects  to  teach,  and  four  hours 
secular  instruction  each  day,  we  cannot  think  out 
problems,  as  if  we  were  chess-players." 

"I  see,"  said  the  priest.     "Good-day!" 

"You  see  now,  Myles,"  he  continued,  as  they  pro- 
ceeded homewards,  "the  whole  secret.  It  is  the 
eternal  law  of  compensation.  Before  the  famine  years, 
you  had  eight  millions  of  stalwart  people  in  the  land. 
There  were  no  banks,  because  there  was  no  money. 
But  there  were  giants,  iron  thewed,  clean-skinned, 
with  white,  perfect  teeth,  and  nerves  of  steel.  Why? 
Because  they  nestled  close  to  Mother  Nature,  took 
her  food  from  her  hands*,  and  did  her  work.  At  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  they  were  in  her  fields,  bend- 
ing down  over  the  sickle  and  the  scythe.     Some  of  the 


236  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

old  men  told  me  that  the  first  day  of  the  harvest,  their 
left  arms  were  swollen  up  to  the  shoulders,  just  like 
bolsters.  They  went  in  at  eight  o'clock  to  a  thundering 
breakfast  of  wholemeal  bread,  and  milk;  back  again 
to  the  harvest  fields  till  noon,  sweating  and  labouring 
under  a  scorching  sun;  dinner  of  innumerable  potatoes 
and  milk  at  twelve  o'clock;  and  back  again  to  work 
till  six,  when  the  supper  of  bread  and  milk  again  was 
ready.  'Twas  severe.  Nature  claimed  their  labour 
and  their  sweat;  but  she  gave  back  generously.  She 
made  her  children  giants.  Now,  you  have  a  gorsoon 
sitting  above  an  iron  cradle,  and  doing  the  work  of 
twenty  men  in  a  day.  Science  and  machinery  have 
come  between  man  and  his  mother.  Nature;  and  she 
has  cast  him  off.  Besides  yourself,  God  bless  you, 
there  are  not  ten  men  six  feet  high  in  the  parish.  And 
look  at  these  poor  children,  with  their  pale,  pasty 
faces,  their  rotting  teeth,  their  poor  weak  brains. 
But  —  the  banks  of  the  country  are  bursting  with  ac- 
cumulated wealth,  human  labour  is  lessened  and  done 
away  with.  Yet  which  was  better  —  a  population  of 
giants  and  no  money;  or  a  decaying  population  just 
half  in  number,  and  with  sixty  millions  locked  up  in 
their  Banks?" 

"Terribly  true!"  said  Myles.  "It  shows  what  I 
did  not  suspect  before,  that  our  problems  are  more 
than  political." 

"If  we  had  a  wise,  sensible  population,"  said  the 
priest,  "we  would  have  no  political  problems." 

"You  think  the  whole  question  is  social,  or  concerned 
with  education?" 

"Largely.  But,  don't  mistake  me,  if  ever  you  take 
up  the  problem.  And  you  will.  I  bought  that  ency- 
clopaedia for  you." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  237 

"For  me?"  said  Myles. 

"Yes!  And,  what  was  harder  to  an  old  fogie  like 
me,  I  read  it,  and  the  Lord  knows  it  was  a  penance  for 
your  sake." 

"How?  I  don't  understand?"  said  Myles,  looking 
at  the  priest. 

"This  way,"  said  Father  James.  "All  the  time  you 
were  in  Dartmoor,  I  said  to  myself,  —  this  boy  has 
elements  of  greatness  in  him.  He  sees  now,  it  is  not 
by  the  pike  and  the  gun,  but  with  the  voice  and  the 
pen  that  Ireland's  salvation  can  be  worked  out.  His 
education  has  been  faulty  — " 

"  I  have  had  none,"  said  Myles. 

"Well,  it  is  imperfect.  I'll  make  him  read  and  I'll 
make  him  think.  No  one  else  in  Ireland  does;  and 
therefore,  he  must  become  once  more  a  leader  of  men." 

"No  one  in  Ireland  reads?"  said  Myles. 

"  Not  one.     They  couldn't?  " 

"But,  my  dear  Father  James,  look  at  your  colleges, 
your  universities,  your  high  schools,  your  low  schools; 
and  the  thousands  that  pass  through  them." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,  I  know  all.  And  I  stick  to  what  I 
say.  No  one  in  Ireland  reads,  or  thinks.  You  saw 
the  reason  with  your  own  eyes." 

"Where?" 

"Just  now  in  that  school.  The  brains  of  the  nation 
are  gone.  Up  to  a  few  years  ago,  education,  like 
field-work,  was  a  slow,  laborious,  methodical  process. 
There  were  few  subjects  to  digest,  just  as  there  were 
only  bread,  and  potatoes,  and  milk  to  eat;  but  these 
subjects  produced  brainy  men.  As  you  heard  me 
say,  those  mathematical  problems  were  before  us, 
day  and  night;  and  sometimes  they  occupied  our 
dreams.     Now,  you  see,  a  simple  cut  in  Euclid  is  im- 


238  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

possible.  The  brains  of  those  boys  would  snap  asunder, 
if  they  were  forced  to  think.  So  with  the  nation.  Its 
mind  is  fed  on  newspapers  and  novelettes.  These 
cost  no  thinking.  But,  as  the  stomach  of  the  nation 
would  reject  potatoes  and  home-made  bread  today,  so 
the  mind  of  the  nation  could  not  assimilate  or  digest 
such  a  writer  as  our  own  Edmund  Burke.  And  here 
comes  in  the  joke  of  the  whole  affair.  The  one  subject 
that  demands  the  widest  reading,  the  deepest  and  most 
concentrated  thought,  is  the  one  subject,  around  which 
these  ill-formed  minds  are  always  hovering." 

"That  is?"  said  Myles,  who  was  wondering  as  much 
at  the  novelty  of  the  idea,  as  at  the  man  who  spoke 
them. 

"Political  science!"  said  the  priest.  "The  people 
are  decent  enough  not  to  pretend  to  know  anything 
about  Art,  or  Science,  or  Literature.  If  you  said 
'Mendelssohn,'  'Guercino,'  or  'Canova'  in  a  drawing- 
room  today,  even  in  Dublin  Castle,  you  would  be  met 
in  solemn  silence,  and  probably  considered  what  is 
called  'bad  form.'  But,  everybody  from  the  boot- 
black to  the  Lord  Lieutenant  will  talk  politics;  and 
everybody  in  the  country  from  the  tramp  to  the 
parish  priest  will  talk  politics,  and  with  an  air  of  as- 
sured infallibility.  But,  here  we  are.  When  will  you 
send  for  that  Encyclopsedia?  " 

"What  Encyclopaedia?" 

"The  Encyclopcedia  Britannica  that  I  bought  for 
you!" 

"But  you  are  making  such  good  use  of  it.  Father 
James.     It  would  be  a  sin  to  take  it  from  you." 

"I  am  done  with  it,"  said  the  priest.  "I'm  leaving 
Kilmorna." 

"No?"  said  Myles,  in  consternation. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  239 

"It  is  a  fact.  My  twenty  years'  curacy  has  been 
rewarded." 

"But,  are  you  going  far?"  said  Myles,  anxiously. 
This  was  his  father  and  dearest  friend  on  earth. 

"Not  far.  I  shall  be  just  four  miles  away.  Father 
Cassidy  is  promoted  to  a  town-parish;  and  I  am  parish- 
priest  of  Lisvarda." 

"Thank  God!"  said  Myles,  fervently. 

"There's  another  reason  for  my  sending  you  this 
book,"  said  Father  James.     "You'll  be  lonely  now." 

"Y'es!  that  I  will,"  said  Mj'les,  not  understanding 
his  meaning. 

"Agnes  is  leaving  you!"  said  the  priest,  and  Myles 
was  struck  dumb. 

"Another  item  of  interest,"  said  Father  James. 
"Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Kendall  —  Mary  Carleton?" 

Myles  started  now. 

"She  has  become  a  parishioner  of  mine.  She  has 
taken  Hopkins'  Villa,  right  over  the  Cleena  river, 
you  know!" 

Myles  nodded.  He  was  too  full  to  speak.  He  shook 
the  priest's  hand;  and,  as  he  turned  away,  the  tears 
were  in  his  eyes. 


XXXIV 

The  conversation  set  Myles  a-thinking;  and  slowly, 
slowly,  he  began  to  realise  that  the  problems,  which 
he,  with  all  the  magnificent  insolence  of  youth,  had 
set  himself  to  solve  easily,  were  world-problems,  revolv- 
ing in  their  own  cycles,  and  which  the  mightiest  minds 
of  every  age  and  race  had  set  themselves,  often  in  vain, 
to  solve.  The  absurdity  of  raising  or  emancipating 
a  whole  race  by  purely  political  methods  broke  on  him 
with  sudden  force;  and  he  saw  that  it  was  only  equalled 
by  the  kindred  absurdity  of  a  people,  with  weakened 
intellects,  seeking  to  solve,  with  ever-increasing  assur- 
ance, the  immense  problems  that  lay  before  them. 
And,  as  he  read  and  read,  he  began  to  see  what  a 
danger  there  was  in  conferring  tremendous  political 
power  on  any  people,  whose  education  was  not  com- 
mensurate with  such  responsibilities;  and  how  the 
ultimate  destiny  of  his  own  people  was  only  to  be 
worked  out  on  the  two  lines  of  religion  and  intellec- 
tual culture.  This  idea  became  intensified  by  a  short 
experience  he  had  about  this  time. 

The  morning  after  he  had  heard  the  news  of  Agnes' 
wish  to  enter  religion  at  last,  he  opened  the  subject 
at  the  breakfast  table. 

"So  you  are  leaving  me,  Agnes?"  he  said,  at  last. 

"Father  James  told  you?"  she  said. 

"Yes!  of  course,  I  knew  'twas  coming." 

"But,  of  course,  you  know,  Mylie,  that  I  shall  not 
leave  you,  if  you  want  me." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  241 

"You  must  not  sacrifice  yourself,  for  me,"  he 
said. 

"I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  "you'll  be  marrying  soon, 
and  settling  down;  and  perhaps,  you  know,  things 
may  not  be  happy  here  — " 

"No,  Aggie,"  he  said.  "I  shall  never  marry.  But 
you  have  already  made  sacrifices  enough  in  delaying 
your  entry  into  religion  for  my  sake.  I  have  heard 
from  Father  James  a  good  many  things.  And  to  make 
a  long  story  short,  when  are  you  going  to  enter?" 

"In  about  a  month,"  she  said.      "And,  Mylie, — " 

"Yes,  go  on!" 

"I'm  not  taking  all  my  fortune  with  me.  I  told 
Reverend  Mother  all;  and  she  has  accepted  only  two 
hundred  pounds." 

"Father  left  you  fifteen  hundred,"  he  said.  "It  is 
safe  in  the  Bank." 

"I  know,"  she  replied.  "Many  a  time  I  wished  I 
had  it  free  to  give  you,  Mylie,  when  you  were  in  trouble. 
But  you'll  have  to  take  it  now." 

"We'll  see,"  he  replied.  "But  one  little  question, 
Aggie!" 

She  waited. 

"Did  you  really  care  for  Halpin?" 

The  girl  blushed  deeply,  but  she  answered: 

"Yes!  because  he  adored  you,  Mylie!" 

"Nothing  more?" 

"No  more." 

"I  think  he  cared  more  for  you  than  that,"  he  said. 
"His  last  words  were:  'Tell  Agnes!'  He  repeated 
that  twice;   and  then  his  life  closed  for  ever!" 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "He  left  me  everything  in  his 
will  —  his  fiddle,  his  books,  even  his  little  dog  Bran! 
Father  James  brought  the  fiddle  and  books  to  me. 


242  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Bran  had  died.  He  also  wrote  me  a  letter.  I  shall 
have  to  destroy  it  now,  as  I  am  entering  religion. 
Would  you  like  to  see  it?" 

"No!"  said  Myles.  "It  is  my  friend's  secret;  and 
you  must  keep  it." 

"Mylie!"  said  Agnes,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes!"  he  said. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  thinking?" 

"I  cannot  guess,"  he  said. 

"Well,  this.  The  Order  I'm  entering  is,  as  you 
know,  enclosed  —  strict  enclosure.  I  shall  never  come 
outside  the  walls,  never  see  a  train,  or  a  steamer,  or  a 
city,  like  Dublin,  again.  I  was  thinking,  if  the  expense 
were  not  too  great,  that  we  two  could  take  a  little 
run  abroad  —  something  to  remember  in  after  days!" 

"The  business,  Aggie  —  the  business,"  he  replied. 

"But  this  is  the  dull  season.  Not  much  can  be  done 
before  the  harvest;  and  Mr.  Cleary  is  such  a  confiden- 
tial clerk!" 

"'Twould  give  you  pleasure?"  he  asked.  Well  he 
knew  that  it  was  for  his  own  sake  she  proposed  it. 

"Yes!  great  pleasure!  And  it  can  never  come 
again." 

"Then  it  must  be  so,"  he  said.  "Of  course.  Father 
James  told  you  he  was  leaving  us?" 

"He  did." 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything  else?" 

"He  told  me  that  Mary  Carleton  is  about  to  be  his 
parishioner." 

"So  it  appears.  Kendall  left  her  well  off;  and  she 
has  had  the  home-sickness." 

"Mylie,"  said  his  sister,  "are  you  glad  or  sorry?" 

"Neither.     Absolutely  indifferent." 

"Mary  was  not  indifferent  towards  you!" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  243 

■  "Indeed?" 

"Yes.  You  don't  know  that  it  was  she  got  you 
arrested  that  awful  time  in  '67." 

"So  Halpin  told  me." 

"I  went  to  her;  and  I  said  to  her:  You  alone  can 
save  him.  She  appeared  surprised  and  pleased;  and 
then  I  knew  her  secret.  Of  course,  I  meant  something 
else,  besides  your  arrest.  I  hoped  she  would  come  to 
you,  and  plead  with  you  to  save  yourself.  She  adopted 
another  way.     She  got  Kendall  to  arrest  you." 

"'Twas  effective  enough,  but  for  Fate,"  he  said. 
"But  what  did  Kendall  think?" 

"He  suspected  all  along  that  she  had  some  leaning 
towards  you.  But  that  singular  request  made  his  mind 
easy.  He  was  too  stupid  to  understand  that  'twas  her 
love  for  you  prompted  it." 

"  Love?  That's  a  big  word,  Agnes  —  too  big  for 
me  to  spell  or  understand.  When  shall  we  start  for 
the  grand  tour?" 

"It  must  be  at  once,"  she  said.  "I  must  have  at 
least  a  week  after  we  return,  before  I  can  enter." 

"All  right,  then.     Anything  else?" 

"There  is.  Do  you  know  what  I've  been  thinking, 
Mylie?" 

"Something  good,  I  presume.'" 

"It  is,  Myles!" 

"Yes!" 

"Father  James  has  been  good  to  us.  You  hardly 
know  all;  and  I  could  never  find  words  to  tell  you  all. 
Suppose  we  ask  him  to  come  with  us?" 

"Agnes,"  he  said,  as  the  tears  started  to  his  eyes, 
"you're  an  angel.  Woman's  wit  against  the  world. 
My  stupid  brain  would  never  have  thought  of  it." 

"And,  Mylie?" 


244  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Something  new  again?" 

"Of  course,  we  shall  bear  all  expenses.  He  has 
nothing." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  his  sister,  and  went  out. 

He  found  his  friend  amidst  a  horrible  litter  of  books, 
and  straw,  and  matting,  and  furniture,  men  flitting  in 
and  out,  with  more  or  less  heavy  articles,  towards  the 
immense  van  that  stood  in  the  street. 

"I'm  too  dirty  to  shake  hands  with  you,"  said  the 
priest,     "/n  exitu  Israel  de  Egypto." 

"I  just  dropped  in  for  a  moment,"  said  Myles. 
"When  will  you  be  settled  down?" 

"In  about  three  or  four  days.  These  are  awfully 
clever  fellows." 

"Do  you  know  what  Agnes  has  got  into  her  little 
head?" 

"No!"  said  Father  James,  looking  alarmed. 

"Nothing  less  than  a  grand  tour  on  the  Continent 
before  she  enters.  She  says  'tis  her  last  and  only 
chance  to  see  Europe." 

"And  the  child  is  right.  Let  her  see  the  world  which 
she  is  leaving  for  ever." 

"That's  all  right.  Father  James.  But  she  can't  go 
alone,  you  know." 

"Of  course  not.  Who'd  ever  think  of  such  a  thing, 
though  young  ladies  can  do  wonderful  things  in  our 
days,  of  which  their  mothers  would  have  never 
dreamed?" 

"To  make  it  short,  Father  James,  she  wants  you  to 
go  with  her." 

"Me?"  said  Father  James,  dropping  a  big  folio  in 
alarm.  "  Mavrone,  wouldn't  I  be  the  nice  spectacle, 
piloting  a  young  lady  over  Europe?  Sure  I'd  never 
hear  the  end  of  it." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  245 

"Well,  she'll  be  disappointed,"  said  Myles.  "Can't 
you  come?" 

"Come?  Come?  and  are  you  going  too?"  said  the 
priest. 

"Why,  of  course.  I  may  be  entering  Melleray  one 
of  these  days,  too;  and  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't 
have  my  fling  as  well  as  you  and  Agnes." 

"Well,  begor,  'tis  tempting,"  said  Father  James. 
"I've  got  three  Sundays  off  now,  that  is,  four  weeks, 
since  I  got  my  stripes;  and  I  suppose  the  Bishop 
won't  object." 

"Not  he.  'Tis  all  settled  then.  I'll  see  you  at 
Lisvarda,  when  we  have  all  arrangements  made.  And, 
Father  James,"  said  Myles,  edging  towards  the  door. 

"Well.  'Tis  all  right  now  —  but,  look  here,  Mylie. 
Who's  to  do  the  talking?  Deuce  a  word  of  French  I 
know,  but  Parlez  vous  Frangaisf" 

"We'll  make  that  all  right.  Agnes  isn't  bad  at 
French.     But  I  was  just  saying  — " 

"Well?" 

"You  needn't  mind  any  ticket.  Agnes  has  the  three 
in  her  pocket";  and  he  ran  away. 

He  came  back  to  Millbank  for  dinner;  and  told  his 
success  to  his  sister,  who  beamed  with  delight.  After 
dinner,  he  had  to  go  to  his  oflice.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  at  the  little  iron  gate  to  let  a  handsome 
carriage  pass  by.  It  was  a  Victoria.  The  horse  was 
perfectly  groomed;  the  driver  in  full  green  livery;  and 
leaning  back  in  the  cushions  was  Mary  Carleton.  He 
gazed  steadily  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  she  at  him. 
Somehow  their  relations  had  been  so  close,  and  their 
histories  so  interwoven,  although  they  had  never 
exchanged  a  word,  that  he  felt  some  impulse  to  raise 
his   hat   and   seek   an   acknowledgment.     But   he   re- 


246  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

strained  the  impulse;  and,  after  a  glance,  she  flushed 
slightly,  and  looked  across  the  river. 

"Not  so  much  changed,"  he  thought,  "but  for  that 
band  of  silver  across  her  forehead." 

"Not  much  changed,"  she  thought,  "but  for  that 
grey  beard  and  hair." 

He  had  time  to  notice  that  her  bo}^  a  youth  of 
fifteen  or  sixteen,  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  carriage,  and 
was  handsome;  and  that  her  daughter,  a  pretty  blonde 
child  of  about  twelve,  leaned  back  in  the  cushions, 
imitating  the  graceful  way  of  her  mother. 


XXXV 

That  was  a  memorable  journey.  The  priest  and  his 
two  companions  carried  with  them  all  the  buoyancy 
and  freedom  that  come  from  getting  away  from  the 
dull,  prosaic  monotonous  grinding  of  daily  life  into 
new  and  unaccustomed  scenes,  in  which,  because  they 
formed  no  part  in  their  own  little  theatre  of  life,  they 
could  be  interested  without  either  hope  or  apprehension. 
Father  James  had  gone  over  the  beaten  track  more 
than  twenty  years  before;  and  he  was  guide  and 
cicerone  to  his  less  experienced  companions.  He  was 
on  the  lookout  for  changes,  and  saw  many  which  made 
a  certain  novelty  in  the  scenes  for  him.  They  came 
fresh  and  inexperienced,  with  fancies  wrought  up  to 
a  high  pitch  of  wonderment  and  excitement  at  the  new 
world  into  which  they  plunged. 

Ah!  Those  delightful  summer  mornings  in  some  vast 
city,  when,  after  mass  and  breakfast,  they  sauntered 
out  to  see  the  wonders  of  the  streets  and  the  temples 
and  the  picture-galleries;  the  long  days  spent  in  these 
latter,  where  wonder  succeeded  to  wonder;  and  whilst 
the  experienced  guide  pointed  out  some  famous  picture 
with  the  coolness  born  of  experience,  his  companions 
went  into  ecstasies  which  were  only  suppressed  lest 
they  should  attract  notice;  the  journey ings  in  train 
or  steamboat  along  the  banks  of  historic  rivers,  or  under 
the  shadow  of  purple  mountains,  and  the  strange  con- 
secration of  every  spot  to  some  historic  event  or  legend; 
the  variety  of  languages  heard  all  around  them,  and 


248  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

which,  because  of  their  very  mystery,  were  enchanting; 
but,  above  all,  these  delicious  summer  twilights  in 
some  German  town,  the  sweetness  and  cleanliness  that 
were  everywhere,  the  strange,  national  dresses,  and, 
above  all,  the  politeness  with  which  they  were  every- 
where met  —  all  these  made  an  impression,  which 
hallowed  all  their  future  lives,  and  made  memory  a 
magnificent  storehouse  whence  pictures  of  scenic  or 
artistic  beauty,  and  human  dignity  and  kindness, 
could  be  summoned  at  will  to  colour  the  drab  monotone 
of  their  daily  lives. 

It  was  curious  to  witness  the  different  impressions 
that  were  made  on  our  travellers.  Agnes,  in  her 
youth,  and  her  woman's  sense  of  beauty  and  order,  was 
in  a  constant  state  of  excitement  over  every  new  revela- 
tion made  by  city,  or  mountain,  or  river.  She  carried 
with  her  that  wonderful  atmosphere  in  which  roseate 
dawns  are  everywhere,  and  there  is  no  twilight  or  night 
or  death,  —  but  everything  is  steeped  in  one  delightful 
colour,  and  that  colour  symbolises  youth  and  beauty 
and  immortality.  Father  James  looked  at  everything 
placidly  as  became  his  years,  with  some  pleasure  but 
little  enthusiasm,  more  anxious  for  the  comfort  of  his 
proteges  than  for  his  own  amusement.  It  was  wonder- 
ful how  the  older  man  was  able  to  smooth  over  the 
difficulties  of  that  trip;  how  he  cajoled  hotel-proprie- 
tors, commanded  servant-maids,  bullied  railway  offi- 
cials; and  with  what  delicate  solicitude  he  shielded 
Agnes  from  every  little  accident  that  could  mar  the 
pleasure  of  the  journey.  To  their  surprise,  too,  he  talked 
fluent  French  and  German,  although  with  an  abominable 
accent,  to  waiters  and  ticket-collectors,  who  stared  at 
him  for  his  grotesque  accent,  but  always  understood 
him  perfectly;    and  he  surprised  them  still  more  by 


A  STORY  OF  '67  249 

his  knowledge  of  every  historical  incident  that  was 
connected  with  the  landscapes  through  which  they 
passed,  and  even  with  the  objects  of  art  or  curiosity 
that  were  met  everywhere  in  the  delightful  centres  of 
European  civilization. 

Strange  to  say,  Myles  alone  half-marred  the  pleas- 
ures of  that  delightful  trip.  In  the  beginning,  the 
novelty  of  everything  charmed  him,  and  he  became  a 
furious  reader.  Baedeker  was  always  in  his  hands; 
and  some  works  of  literature  that  were  recommended 
to  him  as  illustrative  of  the  history  and  manners  of 
the  countries  through  which  they  were  passing.  But, 
as  they  advanced,  and  new  worlds  of  wonder  opened 
up  to  his  view,  and  he  saw  what  education  and  civiliza- 
tion had  wrought;  and  how  human  life  and  its  sur- 
roundings were  lifted  up  and  on  to  a  high  plane  of 
refinement  and  culture;  how  literature  and  the  arts 
sweetened  toil;  and  how,  even  in  countries  where  the 
drudgery  of  human  labour  seemed  excessive,  there 
were  always  compensations  in  the  way  of  public  amuse- 
ments or  private  opportunities  for  self-culture,  his 
heart  sank  within  him,  and  he  became  moody  and 
silent  and  abstracted.  He  was  thinking  of  the  mother- 
land; and  how  far  she  was  in  the  rear  of  all  modern 
civilization.  He  could  not  grow  enthusiastic  over 
scener5^  Were  not  his  own  Slieve  Bloom  and  Galtees 
as  sublime  as  the  "blue  Alsatian  mountains"  about 
which  Agnes  raved?  Was  not  the  lordly  Shannon  as 
glorious  as  the  Rhine;  and  had  not  the  motherland 
colours  on  her  hills,  mists  and  fogs  on  her  plains,  winds 
in  her  forest  trees,  and,  above  all,  her  mystic  and 
mysterious  Ocean  for  ever  crawling  and  fawning  about 
her  feet?  No!  He  would  not  admit  for  a  moment  that 
Nature  had  done  less  for  Ireland  than  for  the  favoured 


250  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

countries  of  Europe;  but  oh!  when  it  came  to  human 
effort  and  human  genius,  what  a  deplorable  contrast! 
The  picture-galleries  of  Belgium  and  Holland  set  him 
wondering  and  amazed.  Those  Cuyps  and  Memlings, 
those  Vandykes,  that  immortal  Rubens.  In  his 
delight  he  spoke  half  aloud  — 

"Such  a  plethora  of  wealth  —  such  vast  artistic 
repositories,  and  oh!  our  poor  country  with  its  four 
millions  and  a  half  of  people,  with  its  sixty  millions 
of  money  locked  up  in  her  banks;  and  only  one  poor 
National  Gallery,  where  there  are  but  a  few  works 
of  native  genius  lighting  up  its  halls!" 

And  the  Universities,  standing  in  every  city  in 
Belgium,  and  raising  to  the  level  of  intellectual  capitals 
even  humble  villages  in  Germany.  And  Ireland,  with 
but  one,  and  that  closed  against  the  vast  majority  of 
young  Irishmen! 

And  those  evenings  in  German  towns,  the  beer- 
gardens,  the  bands,  the  freedom,  the  perfect  equality 
without  a  trace  of  democratic  insolence;  those  bands 
of  students  sweeping  by,  singing  in  harmony  the  songs 
of  their  country;  those  groups  of  German  girls,  gay 
and  laughing,  yet  without  a  trace  of  vulgar  flirtation  — 
everything  refined,  everything  decorous,  everything 
human  and  civilized!  And  Myles  thought  of  home 
and  its  decadence,  the  absence  of  all  civilizing  influences, 
—  art,  music,  literature,  history;  and,  contrasting  the 
two,  he  groaned  in  spirit.  But,  above  all,  it  was  the 
honour  and  reverence  paid  to  the  memories  of  great 
men  that  weighed  upon  him;  because  he  knew  that 
the  life  of  one  great  man  is  a  perpetual  inspiration  to 
a  nation.  Those  poets,  whose  songs  had  sunk  into 
the  hearts  of  the  people;  those  proud  philosophers, 
builders  of  schools  and  systems,  with  their  hundreds  of 


A  STORY  OF  '67  251 

disciples  and  apostles;  those  great  musicians,  whose 
works  were  known  in  every  hamlet  and  village;  those 
classical  scholars  whose  fame  was  recognized  all  over 
Europe;  and,  above  all,  the  humanities  and  civilising 
and  orderly  influences  that  had  flowed  down  from  these 
exalted  sources  and  permeated  and  influenced  all 
human  life,  until  there  was  a  tenderness  and  a  grace 
even  in  the  way  a  child  placed  a  flower  on  your  plate 
in  the  morning  —  all  this  made  him  envious  and 
ashamed;  and  he  thought,  it  will  take  two  centuries  of 
progress  to  raise  ^r  country  to  the  level  of  other 
nations. 

His  querulous  ways  would  have  troubled  two  less 
patient  fellow-travellers;  but  at  least  they  had  the 
one  merit  of  drawing  out  the  secret  thoughts  of  his 
good  friend. 

"There  is  no  use  in  blaming  England,  my  dear 
Myles,"  he  used  to  say,  after  listening  to  one  of  Myles* 
declamations  against  the  arch-enemy.  "Many  decent 
Englishmen  rage  over  their  own  backwardness.  It  is 
quite  true  that  their  evil  example  —  their  money- 
grubbing,  their  factory-building,  their  smoke  and  slime 
and  filth,  from  which  by  a  chemical  process  peculiar  to 
themselves  they  extract  the  red  gold  —  is  killing  art 
and  beauty,  even  so  far  as  Italy.  But  we  have  our- 
selves to  blame.  We  have  produced  great  men  in 
darker  times  than  the  present.  There  never  were  such 
dismal  and  awful  surroundings  to  a  nation,  as  in  '98 
and  '48.  But  as  these  Germans  here  brought  forth 
their  mightiest  men  just  at  the  time  that  Napoleon's 
legions  were  stamping  out  all  human  liberty,  so  we 
brought  forth  strong  men  in  storms  and  darkness." 

"A  few,"  said  Myles,  "very  few!  Always  poli- 
ticians and  orators.     Nothing  else!" 


252  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  there  were,  and  are,  politi- 
cians in  every  clime  and  age.  Dante  was  a  furious 
politician;  and  our  Shanavests  and  Caravats  were 
tamed  doves  compared  to  the  Bianchi  and  Neri  of  his 
time.  Yet  he  brought  out  his  great  poem  in  exile 
and  ignominy." 

"But  then,  where  is  the  cause  of  our  barrenness? 
If  England  is  not  to  blame,  who  is  to  blame?" 

"Why,  ourselves,  to  be  sure.  Our  fickle  minds 
cannot  bear  application  of  any  sort.  You  saw  that 
in  the  case  of  these  young  boys  — " 

"Then  are  we  the  same  race  that  made  the  Cross  of 
Cong  and  the  Brooch  of  Tara?" 

"We  are;  and  we  are  not.  The  same  subtlety,  the 
same  artistic  feeling  is  there;  but  it  cannot  be  de- 
veloped or  directed." 

"Why?  Isn't  that  the  imperfection  of  our  educa- 
tional methods;   and  don't  these  come  from  England?" 

"Partly.  But,  remember,  that  all  the  mighty  men 
of  Italy  and  Germany  worked  under  patronage.  State 
or  individual.  Now,  there's  no  such  thing  in  Ireland. 
Ireland  never  had  a  government  or  a  wealthy  patri- 
cian, or  a  merchant  Croesus,  who  cared  one  brass  far- 
thing about  art,  or  science,  or  literature." 

"You  make  me  sad,"  said  Myles,  "to  think  that 
genius  has  always  had  to  work  at  the  beck  of  patrons." 

"So  it  has  been.  We  can't  go  to  Italy  this  time,  and 
I  am  glad  of  it;  because,  if  you  are  so  soured  and 
morose  with  what  you  have  seen,  we  would  have  to 
put  a  strait-jacket  on  you  if  you  saw  Italy.  Yet, 
there  is  hardly  an  artist  there  who  did  not  work  under 
the  eye  of  a  Pope  or  a  Prince.  Artists,  poets,  philoso- 
phers must  have  bread  and  butter,  like  other  mortals; 
and  later  on,  stars  and  garters." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  253 

"I  shall  go  back  to  Ireland  more  saddened  than 
ever,"  said  Myles.  "All  my  ideals  are  smashed  up 
and  pulverised." 

"If  you  doubt  me,  look  at  it  in  this  way.  Suppose  an 
Englishman  like  Holman  Hunt  or  Millais  were  to 
bring  a  picture  to  Dublin  on  exhibition,  what  would 
happen?  All  Dublin  would  run  mad,  and  tumble  over 
each  other  to  pay  their  sixpences  to  see  the  painting, 
and  to  be  able  to  show  their  taste  by  saying  they  saw  it. 
But,  suppose  some  young  lad  from  the  stews  and  slums 
of  Dublin  had  produced  a  masterpiece  and  set  it  on 
exhibition,  what  would  happen?  All  Dublin  would 
turn  up  its  nose  at  such  an  absurdity.  A  mere  Irish- 
man —  an  artist?  Absurd.  A  great  artist?  Impos- 
sible. But,  suppose  there  was  a  great  painting  there, 
executed  by  that  boy,  and  no  one  could  contradict  the 
evidence  of  experts,  what  would  happen?  The  first 
question  would  be:  Is  he  a  Catholic  or  a  Protestant? 
If  he  were  a  Catholic,  all  the  Protestants  would  walk 
down  the  other  side  of  Grafton  Street.  A  Papist  to 
produce  a  work  of  art?  Impossible.  If  he  were  a 
Protestant,  the  Catholics  would  not  look  even  at  the 
handbills.  He  was  an  Orangeman;  and  that  was 
enough.  When  they  had  decided  that  question  and 
taken  up  party-sides,  the  next  question  would  be  —  his 
politics.  Is  he  a  Nationalist,  or  a  Unionist?  Is  he  a 
and  the  sixpences  would  be  fewer  at  every  dis- 
covery, until  at  last  his  patrons  would  be  —  those  of 
artistic  tastes,  who  belong  to  a  certain  sect,  and  who 
hold  certain  political  views,  and,  within  these  views, 
belong  to  a  certain  party." 

"  We  appear  to  have  a  poor  opinion  of  ourselves,"  said 
Myles.  "We  are  for  ever  hearing  why  haven't  we  a 
Burns,  or  a  Shakespeare,  or  a  Maeterlinck,  or  an  Ibsen." 


254  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Precisely.  'Tis  just  that  constant  depreciation  of 
everything  Irish  that  drives  so  many  of  our  best  men 
to  England  or  America.  See  here  in  this  Germany. 
They  have  Uhland  and  Riickert  and  Korner  and 
Arndt,  not  to  speak  of, higher  names;  and  these  men  are 
held  in  high  honour.  Their  poems  are  in  the  class- 
books  of  their  schools;  their  effigies  are  everywhere, 
just  as  the  statues  of  Burns  are  numerous  in  Scotland. 
Yet  I  doubt  if  any  of  these,  or  the  whole  of  them  put 
together,  could  rival  the  beauties  of  the  '  Irish  Melodies'; 
and,  as  you  know,  many  Irishmen  never  heard  of  three- 
fourths  of  them." 

"Heigho-ho!"  said  Myles.  "'Tis  a  poor  case;  but 
what  is  it  all?     What  is  it  all?  " 

"Political  unrest,  destructive  of  every  attempt  at 
civilising  the  people;  and,  added  to  that,  the  most 
absurd  systems  of  education  in  the  world!" 


XXXVI 

They  had  held  some  such  conversation  as  this  at 
the  dinner  table  of  a  monster  hotel  at  Heidelberg  one 
evening,  taking  it  for  granted  that  this  English  lan- 
guage of  theirs  was  quite  unintelligible  to  the  other 
visitors.  They  spoke  in  low  tones;  yet  in  such  a 
manner  that  their  words  reached  across  the  table,  and 
were  heard,  understood,  and  noted  by  at  least  one  of 
the  visitors. 

After  dinner,  in  the  twilight  of  this  early  summer 
evening.  Father  James  and  Myles  sat  out  on  the  terrace 
overlooking  the  broad  stream  of  the  Neckar,  that 
flowed  beneath  the  famous  mediaeval  castle.  Agnes 
sat  apart  in  a  little  alcove.  She  had  a  book  on  her  lap; 
but  she  was  not  reading.  She  was  thinking  —  that 
Myles  was  far  and  away  the  handsomest  man  at  that 
table,  an  opinion  apparently  shared  by  many  eyes 
that  turned  instinctively  towards  him;  thinking,  too, 
how  fashionable  he  was  with  his  white  hair  standing 
erect,  ever  since  the  convict  clipping  of  ten  years  had 
refused  to  allow  it  to  lie  down  again;  thinking  how  his 
white  beard,  clipped  and  pointed  under  his  chin  was 
quite  d  la  mode;  thinking  how  the  young  girl  who  sat 
a  little  downwards  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  had 
managed  to  brush  back  that  glossy  mass  from  her  fore- 
head, as  if  she  were  only  a  school-girl,  and  yet  succeeded 
in  looking  distinguished;  thinking  that  life  was  a 
pleasant  thing,  and  that  it  will  be  hard  to  give  it  up,  as 


256  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

she  has  determined  to  do,  in  a  few  weeks'  time  —  a 
temptation  which  she  promptly  rejected. 

A  gentleman,  in  evening  dress,  with  uncovered  head, 
and  yet  with  a  fur  pelisse  over  his  shoulders,  came  out 
on  the  terrace,  smoked  for  a  few  moments  looking  down 
the  river,  glanced  at  Agnes,  as  if  he  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  whether  he  should  address  her;  and  finally 
came  over  to  where  the  priest  and  Myles  were  sitting; 
and  bowing  to  them,  he  said: 

"I  do  not  know,  gentlemen,  whether  you  wished 
your  conversation  at  dinner  to  be  considered  of  a  pri- 
vate nature;  yet  it  would  have  been  impertinent  on 
my  part  to  have  said  I  understood  English  well;  still 
more  impertinent  if  I  had  said  how  deeply  I  was 
interested  in  your  conversation." 

He  spoke  with  the  faintest  intonation  of  a  foreign 
accent. 

Father  James  at  once  moved  aside,  and  pointed  to  the 
vacant  seat  between  himself  and  Myles. 

"Very  many  thanks,"  said  the  stranger,  "may  I 
keep  this  cigar?" 

"Undoubtedly.  My  friend  here  likes  a  pipe,  as  you 
see.     I  never  learned  the  art;   but  I  can  admire  it." 

"Ha!"  said  the  stranger,  settling  down  comfort- 
ably.    "  I  think  it  was  Art  you  were  speaking  of?  " 

"Yes!"  said  Father  James,  "or  rather  the  absence 
of  art  in  our  country  — (we  are  Irish) ;  because  there 
is  no  help,  no  patronage;  and  artists,  as  a  rule,  must 
have  bread  to  eat,  and  water  to  drink." 

"Quite  so!  But,  do  you  perceive,  that  the  malady 
of  unproductiveness,  I  think  you  said,  barrenness, 
which  afflicts  your  country,  is  a  world-malady?" 

"No!"  said  Myles,  joining  in,  "that  is  a  consola- 
tion." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  257 

"That  the  Arts  should  have  perished?"  said  the 
stranger,  smiling  and  looking  curiously  at  Myles. 

"No,  no!  But  that  my  poor  country  does  not  stand 
alone  in  her  poverty!" 

"Ha!  A  patriot,  I  perceive.  May  I  go  further? 
The  Arts  are  dead.  Patriotism  is  also  dead  in  every 
country  in  Europe,  both  killed  by  the  same  cause!" 

How  true  it  was  of  Ireland  Myles  knew,  and  he 
could  not  object. 

"What  then  is  the  cause?"  he  said,  "of  such  uni- 
versal decadence?  It  must  be  something  more  than 
want  of  patronage?" 

"You  see  that  river?"  said  the  stranger. 

"Yes!  It  is  very  beautiful  just  now  in  the  twilight, 
with  the  shadow  of  medievalism  hanging  over  it." 

"It  was  more  beautiful  eighty  years  ago,"  was  the 
reply,  "and  in  this  month  also,  when  a  barge,  decorated 
with  flowers  from  stem  to  stern,  sailed  down  along  that 
stream.  There  were  students  from  the  University, 
professors,  fair  ladies,  distinguished  men,  such  as  the 
Crown  Prince  of  Sweden,  and  Prince  von  Waldeck  on 
board.  There  was  a  table  on  deck,  loaded  with  costly 
wines  and  viands,  and  a  profusion  of  plants  and  flowers. 
The  barge  was  followed  by  a  multitude  of  boats, 
crammed  with  students,  and  citizens;  and  there  was 
music,  and  light  and  splendour  everywhere.  And,  what 
think  you  was  all  that  pageant  for?  Well,  I'll  tell  you. 
That  day,  a  certain  poet,  son  of  a  village  schoolmaster, 
had  received  his  Diploma  as  Doctor  of  Philosophy, 
honoris  Causa,  at  this  University;  and  the  fete  was 
organised  in  his  honour.  Would  that  be  possible  in 
your  country?" 

The  priest  and  Myles  looked  at  each  other,  and 
smiled. 


258  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"I  see,"  said  the  stranger.  "You  deem  it  impossi- 
ble.    And  it  would  be  impossible  now  even  here." 

"Why?"  said  Myles,  eagerly.  He  was  pleased  to 
find  that  his  country's  indifference  was  shared  by  more 
favoured  nations. 

"Because  we  have  no  Jean  Paul  now;  and,  because 
if  we  had,  no  such  honour  could  be  paid  him." 

"But,  why,  why,  why?"  said  Myles,  eagerly.  He 
wanted  to  get  at  the  root  of  things. 

"Why?  Ah,  my  friend,  you  are  impatient.  Good. 
It  is  well  to  be  impatient.  I  will  tell  you  why.  Be- 
cause, the  reign  of  democracy  set  in  with  the  French 
Revolution;  and  its  elephantine  hoofs  have  been 
trampling  out  all  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  life 
since  then." 

Father  James  and  Myles  were  silent.  The  latter  was 
almost  resentful.  Why,  is  it  not  certain  that  the 
march  of  progress  and  the  march  of  democracy  are 
identical? 

The  stranger  went  on: 

"I  am  an  aristocrat.  I  own  lands  down  there  in 
Thuringia.  But  I  am  not  wedded  to  my  class.  I 
perceive  its  shortcomings.  I  should  not  shed  tears  over 
its  abolition;  but.  Heavens!  what  is  to  follow?  All 
the  graces,  all  the  sweetness,  all  the  serenities  of  life, 
which  make  the  world  fairly  tolerable,  but  only  toler- 
able, wiped  out;  and  all  the  intolerable  vulgarities  of 
life,  which  make  it  a  hideous  spectacle,  brought  in. 
Because,  whatever  else  may  happen,  one  thing  is 
certain  —  that  great  things  will  never  spring  from  a 
people  who  have  succeeded  in  levelling  down  all  things 
to  a  common  plane,  and,  in  doing  so,  have  killed  the 
symbols  that  represented  the  power  and  the  greatness 
of  humanity." 


A  STORY  OF   '67  259 

"One  of  our  poets,"  said  Myles,  glad  to  be  able  to 
show  that  Ireland  had  such  children,  "almost  used 
your  words: 

"At  the  voice  of  the  pex)ple,  the  weak  symbols  fall, 
And  Humanity  marches  o^er  purple  and  pall; 
O'er  sceptre  and  croum  with  a  noble  disdain, 
For  the  symbols  must  fall,  and  Humanity  reign." 

"Ha!  Repeat  these  words,  my  friend,"  said  the 
stranger.     "They  seem  to  sing." 

Myles  repeated  the  words  from  "  The  Year  of  Revolu- 
tions"; and  then  added: 

"I  should  have  said  it  was  a  lady  that  wrote  them. 
It  was  in  '48,  —  the  year  of  Revolutions." 

"I  should  remember  it,"  said  the  stranger,  in  an 
abstracted  manner.     "I  was  in  prison  that  year." 

"Then  you  are  brethren  in  misfortune,"  said  Father 
James,  breaking  in.  "My  friend  spent  ten  years  in 
an  English  dungeon  for  a  political  offence." 

The  man  started  violently.  Then,  under  a  sudden 
impulse,  he  turned  around  and,  drawing  down  Myles' 
head,  he  kissed  his  forehead. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  he  said,  "but  you  do  not  bear  the 
marks.     I  do." 

"Time  has  worn  them  away,"  said  Father  James. 
"But  you  can  see  why  he  loves  his  people." 

"And  so  do  I,"  said  the  other,  fiercely.  "But  what 
say  you?  'The  symbols  must  fall;  and  Humanity 
reign.'  Is  that  good  for  Humanity?  Because,  after 
all,  Humanity  is  a  beggarly  thing  at  best.  I  would 
not  give  my  dachshound,  Rollo,  nor  my  horse,  Rustum, 
for  the  whole  of  humanity  put  together  —  but  for  one 
thing,  its  symbols;   and  these  are  going." 

"We  are  a  httle  backward,  my  friend  and  I,"  said 


260  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Father  James.  "  These  be  unintelligible  things.  With 
us,  it  is  our  reUgion  that  redeems  Humanity,  and 
nothing  else." 

"Precisely.  We  are  one.  But  do  you  not  perceive 
that  all  religion  is  symbolic  of  the  Divine?  Have  you 
never  heard  of  Mohler's  Symbolikf" 

"Oh,  yes!  Hundreds  of  times.  'Tis  one  of  those 
books  which  everybody  talks  about  and  nobody  reads. 
But  I  don't  understand." 

"Our  Goethe  says  that  the  whole  Universe  is  but  a 
symbol,  or  garment,  of  God;  Life  but  a  symbol  of 
Eternity;  Virtue,  a  symbol  of  eternal  blessedness. 
And  so  the  sceptre  and  the  crozier  and  the  mitre;  the 
pencil  of  the  artist,  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor,  the  wand 
of  the  conductor,  are  symbols  —  of  what?  Of  what- 
ever is  gracious,  and  sweet,  and  beautiful  in  life;  and 
now  they  must  be  all  swept  away  in  the  muddy  torrent 
of  Democracy." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Myles,  "but  will  not  Democracy 
create  its  own  symbols,  pregnant  too,  of  meanings?" 

"It  has  had  a  century  to  prove  itself,"  said  the 
stranger,  "and  what  has  it  done?  No,  no!  Democ- 
racy is  a  barren  thing,  at  best." 

"The  grass  grows  stronger  and  sweeter  when  tram- 
pled," said  Myles,  drifting  into  the  metaphorical 
language  of  the  stranger.  "The  symbols  democracy 
tramples  under  its  hoofs  today  will  surely  grow  more 
powerful  and  gracious  tomorrow." 

"Symbols  are  not  grass,  but  jflowers,"  said  the 
Thuringian.  "Do  flowers  revive,  when  crushed  under 
heel?  Take  away  the  symbols  —  the  crown,  the 
coronet,  the  mitre,  the  sceptre,  from  your  Shakespeare, 
and  what  have  you  left?  Take  your  princesses,  and 
knights,   and   kings  from   your  Tennyson,   and  what 


A  STORY  OF  '67  261 

have  you  left?  Take  your  angels  and  archangels  from 
Milton,  and  what  have  you  left?  Take  your  chief- 
tains and  poets  and  bards  from  your  Scott  or 
Ossian,  and  what  have  you  left?  Is  Walt  Whitman, 
the  rather  salacious  singer  of  democracy,  equal  to 
Shakespeare?" 

"But  you  said  patriotism  was  dead,"  said  Myles, 
eager  to  get  back  on  surer  ground. 

"Quite  so,  and  from  the  same  cause.  For  what  is 
patriotism?  'Tis  a  dream,  but  a  divine  dream,  'Tis 
a  symbol,  —  nay,  even  we  reduce  our  fatherland  to  a 
symbol,  like  the  cock  of  France,  the  bull  of  England. 
How  do  you  represent  your  fatherland?" 

'"Tis  our  motherland,"  said  Myles.  "A  woman 
beneath  a  round  tower  and  ruined  abbey,  a  harp  by 
her  side;  a  wolf-dog  at  her  knee;  all  looking  towards 
a  sunrise  or  a  sunset,  above  an  illimitable  ocean." 

"Which  shall  it  be?"  said  the  stranger,  deeply 
interested.     "The  symbol  is  beautiful." 

"Ah!  Which?"  said  Myles.  "There  is  the  ques- 
tion that  is  torturing  us.  It  is  easy  to  determine,  if, 
as  you  say,  the  spread  of  democracy  has  killed  the 
spirit  of  patriotism.  That  means  a  sunset  and 
night,  and  eternal  night,  without  hope  of  a  dawn 
for  us." 

"Well,  what  is  to  be,  will  be,"  said  the  Thuringian. 
"Democracy  has  but  one  logical  end  —  Sociahsm. 
Socialism  is  cosmopolitanism  —  no  distinction  of  na- 
tionaUties  any  longer;  but  one  common  race.  That 
means  anti-mihtarism,  the  abohtion  of  all  stimulus 
and  rivalry.  And  who  is  going  to  work  or  fight,  my 
friends,  for  that  abstraction,  called  Humanity?  Not  I! 
But,  thank  God,  we  have  the  Past  to  hve  in.  They 
cannot  take  that  from  us!" 


262  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

He  rose  up,  threw  his  cigar  away,  and  said : 
"  Good-night !   You  have  yielded  me  a  pleasant  hour." 
He  bowed,  and  went  back  to  the  Hotel. 
"  I  think  we  may  turn  our  footsteps  towards  Ireland 
now,"  said  Father  James. 


XXXVII 

For  many  a  long  day  afterwards,  the  words  of  the 
stranger  rang  in  the  ears  of  Myles  Cogan: 

Democracy  and  the  Symbols. 

Patriotism  dead. 

They  cannot  filch  the  past  from  us. 

Just  then,  however,  he  was  occupied  with  another 
idea,  which  accompanied  these,  but  took  precedence  — 
namely,  the  revelation  of  his  own  backwardness  in  the 
matter  of  education;  and  the  conviction  that  it  was 
only  religion  and  education  could  save  the  country. 
He  thought  he  would  probe  deeper  into  the  problem, 
and  see  how  the  young  men  of  the  country  felt. 

He  had  persistently  refused  to  enter  pubUc  life, 
or  even  to  associate  himself  with  any  society,  except 
those  that  were  purely  religious.  Now,  he  would  make 
an  experiment. 

Kilmorna  was  a  small  town  of  about  two  thousand 
people.  There  were  two  banks,  a  number  of  good  shops, 
two  churches,  and  half  a  dozen  private  houses,  occu- 
pied by  the  doctor,  an  attorney,  a  Clerk  of  the  Union, 
an  excise  officer,  and  one  or  two  gentlemen  con- 
nected with  the  place,  who  had  made  money,  but  whom 
the  heimweh  drew  hither  to  spend  their  last  days  where 
they  were  born.  A  large  hotel  dominated  the  Main 
Street;  and  a  few  minor  streets  with  shabby  shops 
stretched  irregularly  from  it.  In  one  of  those  back 
streets  there  was  a  rude  building,  formerly  a  store, 


264  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

where  thirty  years  before  Myles  drilled  and  harangued 
his  soldiers.  It  was  now  turned  into  a  Young  Men's 
Society  Hall,  as  the  flaring  letters  over  the  door 
denoted. 

One  evening  some  weeks  after  his  return  from  the 
Continent,  and  just  as  the  October  fogs  were  rising 
from  the  river,  he  asked  his  clerk  to  take  him  through 
the  rooms  of  the  Society.  Mr.  Cleary  was  Vice- 
President.  Nothing  loth,  and  anxious  to  secure  his 
services  in  so  good  a  cause,  Mr.  Cleary  took  him  up 
the  side  street  and  into  the  rooms.  It  was  eight 
o'clock.  They  passed  through  the  reading-room.  It 
was  a  spacious  and  well-hghted  apartment.  There 
was  a  long  table  running  up  the  centre,  upon  which 
newspapers  without  number,  and  in  a  disordered  state, 
were  flung.  Some  dated  back  a  week;  some  were  in 
leaves  scattered  here  and  there.  There  was  a  large 
bookcase  pretty  well  filled,  and  the  books  were  pro- 
tected from  being  handled  by  a  wire  netting.  Myles 
glanced  through  their  titles.  The  novels  were  worn  to 
tatters;  the  books  of  adventure  were  in  fair  condition; 
the  books  of  science  were  spotless. 

"We  have  a  splendid  billiard-table  in  the  next  room," 
said  Mr.  Cleary.  '"Tis  our  Bank,  our  Exchequer. 
Without  it,  we  should  have  to  close  up." 

It  was  a  fine  room.  The  table  did  look  bright  and 
clean  in  its  new  green  cloth.  The  gas  lights  shone 
brilliantly.  Some  twenty  or  twenty-five  young  fellows 
were  seated  around,  smoking  in  silence,  and  watching 
the  game  with  the  deepest  interest. 

The  two  men  lingered  a  few  moments,  and  then 
turned  away. 

"Then  the  bilUard-table  is  the  centre  of  the  life 
and  existence  of  your  Society?"  said  Myles. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  265 

"Yes!"  said  his  clerk,  "of  course  we  have  an  occa- 
sional concert,  which  brings  us  in  a  few  pounds.  We 
are  having  one  on  Wednesday  evening.  It  will  be 
very  good.  Some  good  singers  are  coming  from 
Dublin." 

"Yes!"  said  Myles,  full  of  his  own  thoughts,  "but 
the  intellectual  progress  of  the  Society  —  what  of 
that?" 

"We  don't  think  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Cleary.  "Some 
time  ago,  one  of  the  priests  made  an  attempt  at  lectur- 
ing, but  it  failed.  All  that  we  can  aim  at  now  is  to 
keep  our  young  men  off  the  streets,  and  away  from  the 
pubUc-house." 

"No  one  reads?"  said  Myles. 

"No  one.  One  or  two  old  fogies  or  bookworms  used 
come  here  at  first;  but  they  soon  exhausted  all  our 
books,  and  they  come  no  more." 

"I  see  Manzoni's  great  novel  neglected.  Do  any  of 
the  young  men  read  History  —  even  Irish  History  — 
say  Mitchell's,  or  A.  M.  SuUivan's  'New  Ireland,'  or 
the  'Jail  Journal'?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no !  The  history  of  Ireland  which  interests 
us  is  what  is  going  on  about  us  now.  We  have  done 
with  the  past.     It  is  a  Uttle  gloomy,  you  admit!" 

"I  see.  And  the  concert  —  Wednesday,  you  said? 
I  shall  come!" 

Myles  went  home.  The  words  of  the  Thuringian: 
"They  cannot  filch  from  us  the  Past!"  and  the  words  of 
the  Vice-President  of  the  Kilmorna  Young  Men's 
Society:  "We  have  done  with  the  Past!"  were  ringing, 
not  too  melodiously,  in  his  ears. 

"What  a  national  apostasy  has  taken  place,"  he 
thought.  "Who  could  have  beUeved  it?  And  was 
it  for  this,  Halpin,  you  shed  your  blood?" 


266  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

He  was  brought  back  to  everyday  existence  the 
following  morning.  There  was  a  letter  on  his  desk  to 
the  effect  that  certain  bills  were  overdue;  and  that  one 
of  his  creditors,  partner  in  a  certain  large  milling  firm, 
would  call  that  afternoon  for  explanations.  There  were 
few  to  make.  Business  had  been  going  down  steadily, 
owing  to  increased  competition,  new  methods,  poUtical 
rivalries,  etc.  Myles  opened  his  books,  took  his  visitor 
into  a  private  room,  and  left  him  there.  After  an  hour, 
the  creditor  asked  Myles  to  come  in.     He  said: 

"You  see,  Mr.  Cogan,  our  people  don't  want  to 
press  you.  Your  father  and  you  have  been  our  cus- 
tomers for  over  forty  years.  Our  business  dealings 
have  been  cordial.  But,  the  times  are  hard.  We  can- 
not afford  to  lose  money;  and  your  business  is  going 
down." 

"I  admit  all  that  you  say,"  said  Myles.  "It  is  not 
my  fault.  I  am  here  from  morning  till  night.  I  avoid 
all  public  affairs;  I  eschew  poUtics;  I  am  not  on  any 
Board." 

"True;  but  you'll  excuse  the  expression  —  you  are 
not  up-to-date." 

"How?     I  do  not  understand?"  said  Myles. 

"Your  business  methods  are  antiquated.  They 
might  have  done  very  well  in  the  past.  But  we  have 
done  with  the  past." 

"So  I  have  been  learning  lately,"  said  Myles,  "no 
later  than  last  night." 

"Now,  I  have  been  looking  over  your  books,"  said 
his  visitor,  "and  what  do  I  find?  Here  is  Mrs.  Annes- 
ley's  account;  and  here  is  Major  Harty's;  and  here  is 
Colonel  Smith's.  These,  I  presume,  are  the  resident 
gentry?" 

"Yes!     They    never    deserted    me,"    said    Myles. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  267 

"Whatever  custom  I  lost  during  my  —  well,  absence, 
it  was  the  custom  of  our  own  people,  the  farmers  and 
the  townspeople." 

"Very  good.  That  is  well.  But  don't  you  perceive 
the  mistake  you  are  making?  Here  is  the  account  of 
Patrick  Flaherty  —  a  farmer,  I  presume?" 

"Yes!     A  small  farmer." 

"And  you  charge  him,  a  small  farmer,  exactly  the 
same  as  you  charge  Colonel  Smith,  and  the  others. 
Now,  you  ought  surely  to  know  that  the  great  rule  in 
transacting  modern  business  is  to  charge  according 
to  your  customers." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Myles,  looking  aghast 
at  the  suggestion.  "I  make  my  margin  of  profit  on 
the  wholesale  prices,  and  charge  all  my  customers  alike." 

"Phew!"  said  his  visitor.  "That  would  never  do. 
That's  not  up-to-date  business.  If  that  were  done  in 
our  cities,  half  the  shops  would  be  closed  in  twelve 
months." 

"I  cannot  understand,"  said  Myles.  "Surely,  you 
don't  mean  that  I  must  have  different  prices  for  every 
man  that  comes  into  my  shop?" 

"That  is  just  what  I  mean!"  said  the  other.  "A 
tobacconist  buys  a  box  of  cigarettes  for  four  shillings. 
A  seedy  student  comes  in.  He  wants  a  whole  box. 
He  is  asked  to  pay  six  shillings.  He  heckles  and 
bargains,  and  finally  gets  it  for  five.  An  order  comes 
from  an  hotel  for  the  same.  They  are  charged  seven 
and  sixpence.  A  swell  drives  up  in  a  motor.  He  gets 
the  same  box  for  ten  shiUings,  with  the  assurance  that 
they  are  cutting  down  the  price  to  obUge  him.  That's 
business.  That's  up-to-date.  The  same  holds  in 
all  other  kinds  of  goods.  The  same  in  the  professions. 
Charge  according  to  your  customers.     That's  the  rule 


268  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

of  the  trade,  of  every  trade.  And  when  you  are  dealing 
with  a  fool,  add  on." 

Myles  was  thunderstruck. 

"It  seems  to  me  immoral,"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  the  other,  in  the  most  debonair 
manner;  "perhaps  so.  But  morals  is  one  thing;  and 
business  is  another;  and  don't  you  forget  it.  Now, 
here's  another  matter.  I  perceive  you  never  give 
discount  to  your  customers!" 

"Never!  I  cannot  see  why  I  should,  when  they 
have  goods  at  reasonable  prices." 

"Your  neighbour  over  the  way,  Simpson,  does  so." 

"So  I  have  heard.  I  cannot  understand  how  it  pays 
him." 

"'Tis  very  simple.  He  puts  on  twopence  on  every 
shilling;  and  gives  back  a  penny  discount." 

"And  the  people  tolerate  that?" 

"Certainly.  The  ordinary  customer  never  thinks 
of  what  he  is  paying,  only  of  what  he  is  getting.  And 
look  here,  Mr.  Cogan!  I  see  there  are  nearly  a  thou- 
sand pounds  out  from  you.     Can't  you  get  it  in?" 

"I  have  tried,"  said  Myles.  "I  have  sent  out  ac- 
counts again  and  again;  and  the  result  is,  that  my 
customers  leave  me.  They  are  insulted,  and  go 
elsewhere." 

"But  remain  on  your  books?" 

"Yes!  You  see  that  old  decency  —  that  old  spirit 
of  pride,  that  used  make  our  people  blush  to  owe  six- 
pence, has  vanished.  I  meet  those  people  on  the  street, 
or  going  to  Mass,  and  they  salute  me  as  blandly  as  if 
they  had  never  owed  me  sixpence." 

"Then,  why  not  summon  and  decree  them?" 

"The  decree  might  serve  to  light  my  pipe,"  said 
Myles,  bitterly.     "What  else  could  I  do  with  it?     If 


A  STORY  OF  '67  269 

I  dared  distrain,  or  take  their  cattle,  the  whole  country 
would  be  up  against  me.  You  see  they  are  quite 
up-to-date." 

The  creditor  began  to  bite  his  pen-handle.  He  was 
in  deep  cogitation.     He  turned  around  suddenly. 

"Do  you  ever  give  a  glass  of  whiskey  to  a  good 
customer,  or  a  servant-boy?" 

"Never!"  said  Myles.  "Vm  a  teetotaller  myself; 
but  I  would  not  grudge  a  drink  to  a  friend;  yet  that 
promiscuous  treating  of  servants  would  be  impossible." 

"You  don't  give  them  a  Christmas  Box  even?" 

"No!  Since  —  since  my  boyhood,  I  have  a  par- 
ticular horror  of  bribery  in  any  form." 

"Mr.  Cogan?"  said  the  creditor,  after  a  long  pause, 
during  which  he  had  chewed  away  the  top  of  the 
pen-handle. 

"  Yes?  "  said  Myles. 

"I  can  only  come  to  one  conclusion.  I  must  report 
to  my  partner  that  you  are  wholly  out  of  date;  and 
that  you  must,  sooner  or  later,  if  you  adhere  to  those 
principles,  close  up  and  retire.  Yet,  we  won't  press 
you.  What  I  suggest  is  this  —  that  you  effect  a  com- 
position; and  leave  it  to  us  to  realize  your  assets  and 
debts.  This  cannot  be  done  without  a  little  expense; 
but  no  one  minds  that  nowadays." 

"But  I  mind  it,"  said  Myles,  in  a  sudden  temper. 
"It  is  a  dishonourable  thing,  and  means  dishonour 
to  our  name.     Now,  wait  one  moment  please!" 

He  left  the  room,  and  went  straight  to  his  office. 
Here  he  opened  his  safe,  took  out  his  cash-box,  and 
from  this,  a  deposit  receipt  on  a  local  bank. 

Returning,  he  endorsed  the  receipt,  and  placed  it  in 
his  creditor's  hands. 

"My  bills  are  three  hundred,"   he  said  in  a  level 


270  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

tone,  but  his  eyes  spoke  of  suppressed  passion.  "  Here 
is  a  receipt  for  twelve  hundred.  You  have  doubted 
my  honourable  intentions  towards  your  firm,  although 
you  have  had  forty  years'  experience  of  us.  This  money 
is  legally  mine,  altho',  for  certain  reasons,  I  did  not  wish 
to  touch  it.  You  can  keep  it  as  security  that  you  shall 
not  suffer  by  me." 

"Oh!  really,  Mr.  Cogan,"  said  the  man  of  business, 
after  casting  a  careful  eye  over  the  receipt,  "you  quite 
misunderstood  me.  We  never  had  the  slightest  doubt 
of  your  honour  or  solvency.  Only  for  your  own  sake, 
we  would  wish  that  you  would  conform  more  to  modern 
methods  of  business.  I  couldn't  think  of  taking  such 
a  sum  in  mortgage.  I  shall  explain  all  to  my  partner, 
I  will,  indeed!" 

He  was  taking  up  his  hat,  after  donning  his  overcoat, 
when  he  said,  as  an  afterthought: 

"By  the  way,  my  partner  made  a  suggestion,  which 
may  meet  all  our  views.     You  won't  be  offended?" 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Myles.     "Go  ahead!" 

"Well,  he  thought  that  if  —  if  you  considered  it 
advisable  —  the  matter  lies  altogether  in  your  own 
hands,  you  know  —  it  would  help  you  very  much,  and, 
perhaps,  develop  your  business,  if  you  were  to  take 
Mr.  Cleary  into  partnership." 

"My  clerk?"  said  Myles,  whilst  his  face  darkened 
with  sudden  suspicion. 

"Yes!     He  is  an  efficient  man;    and  has  capital." 

Myles'  face  grew  darker,  but  ho  said : 

"Mr.  Cleary  has  suggested  this?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  said  the  man,  anxiously.  "It  came 
altogether  from  my  partner." 

"I  shall  think  of  it,"  said  Myles.     "Good-day!" 


XXXVIII 

On  Wednesday,  Mr.  Cleary  had  tea  with  Myles  at 
Millbank,  and,  after  tea,  they  strolled  quietly  across 
the  bridge  towards  the  town  hall,  where  the  concert 
was  to  he  held.  The  evening  was  very  beautiful;  and 
just  half-way  across  the  bridge,  Myles  paused,  and 
seemed  to  be  watching  the  waters  that  swirled  beneath. 
Suddenly  he  turned  and  said  to  his  clerk: 

"Had  you  any  conversation  with  FrankHn  the  day 
he  was  here?" 

"None  whatever,"  was  the  reply,  "except  to  bid  him 
good-day!" 

"He  made  me  a  sudden  proposal,"  said  Myles.  "He 
lectured  me  first  on  business  methods,  and  new  ways  of 
doing  business,  which  I  considered  dishonest  and 
immoral,  which  he  said  were  practised  universally.  He 
then  proposed  a  composition.  I  showed  him  that  I 
could  easily  pay  him  four  times  the  amount  of  our 
overdue  bills.  He  then  proposed  that  I  should  take 
you  as  a  partner." 

The  old  clerk  flushed  up  beneath  his  white  beard. 

"And  what  did  you  say.  Sir?"  he  repUed. 

"I  said  I'd  think  of  it,"  said  Myles.  "Now,  give 
me  your  opinion!" 

"If  the  offer  came  from  you,  Sir,"  he  said,  "I  would 
esteem  it  a  great  honour  and  gladly  accept  it.  It  would 
look  badly  now,  as  coming  from  them." 

"Why?" 


272  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Because  it  would  appear  that  they  distrusted  you 
and  your  business  methods." 

"Well,  so  they  do.  The  question  is,  can  you  do 
better?" 

"I  cannot  take  a  deeper  interest  in  the  business 
than  I  have  taken  for  over  thirty-five  years,"  was 
the  reply. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Myles.  "And  everyone  knows  it. 
The  question  is,  can  you  introduce  new  business 
methods,  that  shall  not  be  absolutely  immoral,  so  as  to 
make  the  place  more  successful  than  it  has  been?" 

"Well,  of  course,  you  see,  Sir,"  said  the  clerk,  "you 
have  very  big  ideas,  that  don't  suit  our  times.  Every- 
one is  surprised  that  you  are  not  in  the  bankruptcy 
court  long  ago.  There  are  not  fifty  men  in  Ireland 
doing  business  on  your  lines  to-day." 

"Then,  you  refuse  the  partnership?"  said  Myles. 

"No,  if  you  offer  it  by  your  own  free  will,  and  give 
me  a  free  hand." 

"A  free  hand?  I  don't  know  what  it  means,"  said 
Myles.  "I  believe  you  to  be  an  honourable  man  and 
a  conscientious  man  —  you  go  to  Holy  Communion 
once  a  month?" 

"Yes,  as  a  member  of  the  Confraternity!" 

Myles  paused  a  moment. 

"It  appears,"  he  said  at  length,  "that  my  short- 
comings are  reducible  to  three  heads  —  I  don't  charge 
according  to  my  customers;  I  don't  give  false  discount, 
and  steal  it  from  my  customers  in  another  way;  I 
don't  give  drink  or  bribes,  even  in  the  shape  of  Christ- 
mas Boxes.  Now,  if  I  give  you  a  free  hand,  do  you 
mean  to  do  these  things?" 

"They  are  the  recognised  practices  of  our  trade," 
said  the  clerk.     "They  are  not  essential." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  273 

"That  is,  you  can  conduct  our  business  without 
them?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"And  make  it  pay?" 

"Yes!" 

"Now,  understand  me,  Mr.  Cleary,"  said  Myles. 
"I  am  an  oldish  man.  I  shall  not  marry.  I  don't 
care  for  money;  and  if  I  had  money,  I  have  no  one  to 
whom  I  would  care  to  leave  it.  My  household  expenses 
do  not  reach  a  hundred  a  year.  Can  you  make  such 
profits  on  the  business  as  to  secure  that  for  me?" 

"If  you  mean  to  make  me  your  partner  on  such 
terms,  I  cannot  accept  it,"  said  the  clerk.  "The  mill 
and  shop  can  be  made  to  yield  a  greater  profit." 

"Well,  I'm  content." 

"But  I  am  not.  You  want  to  reverse  our  positions; 
make  me  owner,  and  you,  my  paid  clerk;  and  put  up 
'Cleary'  for  'Cogan.'  No,  no,  that  would  never  do. 
I  shall  do  all  in  my  power  to  meet  your  wishes,  as  you 
wish  to  pay  me  this  honour;  but  the  name  'Cogan' 
must  not  be  taken  down." 

Myles  pressed  the  man's  hand;  and  they  crossed 
the  bridge,  and  entered  the  town  together. 

"There  is  one  good  omen,"  said  the  clerk,  as  they 
passed  into  the  Town  Hall.  "Mrs.  Kendall  has  opened 
her  account  with  us;   and  it  is  to  be  ours  exclusively." 

"Ha!"  said  Myles. 

The  concert  was  much  the  same  as  is  held  during 
the  winter  months  in  every  village  in  Ireland.  The 
audience  was  mixed.  Near  the  door,  the  "boys" 
congregated  in  large  numbers,  quite  ready  to  applaud 
or  lend  a  voice  at  a  chorus.  Further  up,  were  seated 
small  shopkeepers,  servants,  people  from  the  country, 
and  a  few  from  neighbouring  villages.     Nearer  to  the 


274  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

platform,  the  gentlemen  sported  flowers  in  buttonholes, 
and  the  ladies'  heads  were  uncovered.  In  the  front 
row  were  the  elite  of  the  village.  Two  gentlemen  were 
in  evening  dress;  and  their  ladies  were  decolletees. 
Myles  and  his  partner  sat  rather  far  back  in  the  hall. 
One  of  the  organisers  requested  them  to  come  on  to  the 
reserved  seats;   but  they  declined. 

The  programme  was  the  usual  one  —  a  chorus  by  the 
Convent-school  children,  a  comic  song,  a  duet:  "Home 
to  our  Mountains";  a  four-hand  reel,  a  solo  —  "Way 
down  Bermondsey";  a  recitation,  etc.  The  audience 
was  attentive,  but  not  enthusiastic.  There  were  no 
encores. 

In  the  second  part,  after  a  ten  minutes'  interval,  the 
audience  seemed  to  wake  up.  They  bore  with  exem- 
plary patience  the  opening  chorus,  "There's  moonlight 
on  the  wave,"  seemed  to  chafe  a  httle  when  a  fine 
young  Irish  fellow  sang  an  Irish  song:  "Maureen"; 
and  then  settled  themselves  comfortably  in  their  seats 
for  the  event  of  the  evening:  A  comic  song  by  Mr. 
Grant,  Dublin. 

"This  will  be  very  good,  I  beUeve!"  whispered  Cleary 
to  Myles.     It  was. 

A  young  gentleman  in  evening  dress  came  forward, 
made  a  bow,  was  received  with  enthusiastic  applause, 
and  commenced  to  sing  with  a  pronounced  English 
accent: 

Yip-i-addy-i-aye. 
After  the  first  chorus,  he  invited  the  ladies  alone  to 
accompany  him  in  repeating  the  chorus;  then  the 
gentlemen  only;  then  all  together.  It  was  clearly 
familiar  to  them,  because  they  took  up  the  words  with 
great  energy,  and  from .  the  decolletee  in  the  reserved 
seats  down  to  the  virago  of  the  lanes;    and  from  the 


A  STORY  OF   '67  275 

professional  man  in  spotless  front  down  to  the  news-boy, 
who  brought  his  paper  in  the  morning,  all  responded: 

Yip-i-addy-i-aye. 
Then  all  burst  into  a  simultaneous  fit  of  laughter. 

When  the  noise  of  the  chorus  and  the  laughing  had 
subsided,  the  applause  was  thunderous,  the  encores 
imperious.  The  popular  hero  came  out  again,  bowed 
low,  and  retired.  It  was  a  Httle  disappointing;  but 
it  was  soon  explained  that  he  was  a  professional  artist, 
who  had  only  stipulated  with  the  committee  for  one 
song.  He  was  not  a  common  fellow  who  thirsted  for 
encores. 

"Is  there  much  more  of  this  kind  of  thing?"  said 
Myles. 

"Only  one  other  comic  song,"  said  his  partner; 
"there's  a  grand  chorus,  too.  That's  what  the  people 
like.     They  can  join  in." 

So  there  was.  It  was  about  a  shipwrecked  mariner, 
presumably  an  Irishman  who  fell  into  the  hands  of 
cannibals  on  some  Polynesian  island,  and  was  saved 
by  a  young  lady  savage,  daughter  of  a  chieftain,  who 
wished  to  marry  him,  in  order  to  have  the  feast  alto- 
gether to  herself.  The  chorus  was  supposed  to  be  in 
the  usual  vernacular  of  the  natives.  It  was  taken  up 
by  the  entire  audience,  who  also  stamped  their  feet, 
as  if  dancing  an  accompaniment. 

Myles  Cogan  looked  around.  It  was  a  well-dressed, 
well-conducted,  orderly  audience,  brimming  over  with 
merriment  and  fun,  and  bent  on  carrying  out  the  old 
Roman  principle  of  enjoying  the  day,  whilst  they  had 
it.  But  there  was  not  an  indication  that  they  were 
Irish,  except  a  broad  accent  here  and  there  betrayed  it. 
Instead  of  the  old  sweet  songs,  so  full  of  tenderness 
and  sorrow  for  lost  causes;   or  the  later  war  songs  and 


276  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

love  songs  that  were  laid  lovingly  at  the  feet  of  "dark 
Rosaleen"  by  her  worshippers,  you  had  the  empty 
and  vulgar  nonsense  of  a  London  music-hall;  no 
blending  of  the  "smile  and  tear  of  Erin,"  but  the  loud 
laughter  and  the  vacant  mind. 

It  plunged  Myles  into  a  melancholy  mood,  whilst 
to  everyone  else  it  seemed  but  a  happy  indication  of 
what  "New  Ireland"  was  to  be.  To  them  it  was  a 
"good-bye!"  to  the  past  with  all  its  gloom  and  melan- 
choly, and  a  cheerful  bright  outlook  on  a  golden  future. 
They  were  a  happy,  gay,  rollicking  crowd,  bent  on 
amusement,  and  determined  to  make  the  most  of  Ufe. 
To  Myles  it  was  an  apostasy  —  an  open  abandonment 
of  all  that  had  hitherto  been  cherished  as  the  tradi- 
tional glories  of  the  race.  Once  or  twice  the  thought 
flashed  upon  him  that  possibly  he  might  be  wrong  in 
allowing  himself  to  be  haunted  by  the  gloom  and  glory 
of  the  past,  instead  of  joining  the  Corybantes  with 
their  Cymbals,  and  dancing  down  the  long  avenue  of 
gaiety  which  the  prophets  were  opening  up  before  the 
eyes  of  a  disenchanted  race.  For  the  dreams  of 
Nationality  had  now  disappeared.  As  the  Thuringian 
said:  Patriotism  was  dead.  Then  again  the  words 
which  Father  James  had  once  in  the  kindhest  spirit 
addressed  to  him: 

"Myles  Cogan,  you  are  in  imminent  danger  of  be- 
coming a  prig,  a  pendant,  or  a  pessimist,"  came  back 
to  him,  and  threw  him,  there  in  that  crowded  hall, 
into  a  long  reverie  of  painful  introspection.  But, 
habit  was  too  strong.  He  shook  the  traitorous  thought 
aside.  It  was  the  old  National  ideals  that  were  right, 
—  the  unselfish  love,  the  spirit  of  sacrifice,  the  melan- 
choly tinged  with  hope!  The  nation  had  apostatised; 
but  his  thoughts  should  ever  hover  above  the  mount 


A  STORY  OF  '67  277 

of  his  country's  Calvary.  The  final  chorus  was  "Auld 
Lang  Syne"  in  Irish,  of  which  not  one  understood  a 
word. 

Then  the  Chairman  spoke,  and  thanked  the  perform- 
ers, particularly  the  professional  artists  from  Dubhn, 
for  that  delightful  and  intellectual  entertainment; 
and  thanked  the  audience  for  their  enthusiastic  appre- 
ciation of  the  efforts  of  the  local  Committee  to  bring  a 
little  sweetness  and  Ught  into  the  dull,  dreary  round 
of  an  Irish  village.  There  were  great  hopes  that  the 
country,  moving  ahead  in  so  many  matters,  was  also 
progressing  intellectually;  and  if  there  were  need  of 
a  proof  of  this,  he  could  only  point  to  the  acute  and 
inteUigent  manner  in  which  that  large  and  distinguished 
audience,  quite  up-to-date  in  other  matters,  were  also 
up-to-date  in  their  appreciation  of  classical  music. 
The  Committee  hoped  to  repeat  these  entertainments 
from  time  to  time,  and  thus  contribute  to  the  intel- 
lectual advancement,  as  well  as  to  the  relaxation  and 
amusement  of  their  historic  town. 

Then  the  audience  dispersed,  many  saying  it  was 
the  greatest  treat  they  had  ever  had  in  Kilmorna. 

"I  hope  you  are  pleased  that  you  came,"  said  Mr. 
Cleary,  when  they  were  free  from  the  crowd. 

"Very  much,  indeed.     It  was  a  revelation." 

"You  see.  Sir,  just  Hke  our  business  methods,  of 
which  we  were  speaking  a  while  ago,  the  country  is 
moving  ahead.     Everything  now  must  be  up-to-date." 

"Of  course,"  said  Myles. 

"I  believe  it  was  suggested  by  some  of  our  Commit- 
tee to  introduce  some  National  songs,  such  as  the 
'Melodies,'  or  the  '48  songs;  but  they  decided  it 
would  not  do." 

"Why?"  said  Myles. 


27S  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Well,  you  see  they  are  old-fashioned,  and  the  people 
want  something  new.  Then  they  are  melancholy; 
and  what  the  people  want  is  something  amusing  —  the 
race,  the  ball,  the  dance,  the  comic  song.  And  then  I 
am  told  the  children  will  not  learn  them." 

"Why?"  said  Myles. 

"They're  difficult;  and,  you  see,  there  is  not  a  single 
rollicking  air,  which  the  people  could  take  up.  You 
see,  everything  is  changed;    and  we  cannot  go  back." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Myles.  "Yes,  we  cannot  go 
back.  Good-night,  Mr.  Cleary.  I  shall  see  about 
that  deed  of  partnership  as  soon  as  possible." 


XXXIX 

Clearly  then  Myles  Cogan  was  out  of  touch  with  his 
generation.  He  saw  the  utter  futiUty  of  attempting 
to  raise  such  a  people  to  any  high  level  of  thought  or 
action.  All  dignity  seemed  to  have  passed  out  of  Hfe; 
class  distinctions  were  being  levelled;  reserve  and 
reticence,  the  hall  marks  of  noble  spirits,  were  no  more. 
It  was  a  singular  revolution;  and  its  very  suddenness 
made  it  more  singular.  Myles  began  to  puzzle  himself 
about  its  remote  and  proximate  causes.  Then  the 
words  of  the  Thuringian came  back:  "The  elephantine 
hoofs  of  democracy." 

He  was  now  thrown  back  upon  himself;  and  this 
became  so  much  the  easier,  as  now  he  could  leave  his 
quondam  clerk  and  present  partner  the  greater  part  of 
the  burden  of  business.  He  had  been  steadily  reading  a 
complete  course  of  the  world's  literature  for  some  time. 
He  threw  himself  into  the  work  of  self-culture  more 
assiduously  than  ever.  The  cheap  reproduction  of  the 
great  works  of  every  age  and  clime  enabled  him  to  put 
together  a  fairly  respectable  Ubrary;  and,  it  was  an 
intense  enjoyment  to  him,  during  the  long  winter's 
evenings,  or  during  the  summer  twilights,  to  take  up, 
and  dwell  upon  the  large  and  comprehensive  manner 
in  which  great  intellects  have  always  treated  the 
supreme  problems  of  human  life.  How  narrow  and 
parochial  now  seemed  the  petty  party-politics  of  Irish 
life!     How  the  problems  that  were  agonising  the  nation 


280  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

seemed  dwarfed  into  insignificance  when  compared 
with  the  great  political  upheavals  that  make  European 
history;  and  how  even  these  sank  into  nothingness 
before  the  tremendous  revelation  that  it  was  all,  all 
but  the  trouble  of  ants  in  the  Hght  of  a  million,  milUon 
suns! 

From  time  to  time,  he  was  stung  with  remorse  at 
the  thought  that  his  Ufe  was  passing  uselessly  by; 
and  that  he  would  probably  sink  into  his  grave,  without 
having  done  a  single  thing  for  his  country.  But,  he 
asked  himself,  what  could  he  do?  He  was  debarred 
from  taking  any  part  in  the  intellectual  advancement 
of  Ireland.  It  was  in  the  hands  of  officials,  who  were 
tied  to  systems  that  were  already  condemned  by  their 
want  of  ordinary  success;  and  there  was  the  fatal 
apathy  of  the  people  themselves.  And  as  to  political 
Ufe,  oh,  no!  That  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  To  go 
down  and  enter  that  arena  was  impossible. 

"One  thing  I  thank  God  for,"  he  said  one  evening, 
sitting  on  the  long  green  garden  seat  outside  Father 
James'  house  at  Lisvarda,  and  looking  down  on  the 
valley  where  Kilmorna  nestled  a  few  miles  away, 
"that  I  have  kept  my  hand  out  of  the  wasps'  nest  of 
pofitics." 

"Look  here,  Myles!"  said  Father  James,  "this  won't 
do!  You  are  suffering  from  a  kind  of  intellectual  fever. 
There  is  a  fine  kind  of  deUrium  which  comes  from  books, 
just  as  surely  as  from  opium.  They  make  you  'dream 
dreams,  and  see  visions,'  but  these  are  no  more  real 
than  the  ravings  of  a  drunkard." 

"How?     I  can't  see!"  said  Myles. 

"Nothing  simpler.  Men,  whose  fives  were  fived  on 
low  levels  can  yet  write  subfime  things.     These  few 


A  STORY  OF  '67  281 

are  generally  partially  insane.  The  average  man  in 
the  street  is  wholly  sane.      He  sees  things  as  they  areJ^ 

"Precisely.  But  things  as  they  are,  are  very  bad. 
Are  we  to  sit  down,  and  contemplate  them  with  com- 
placency?" 

"No!  But,  que  voulez-vous?  The  man  of  letters  is 
a  useless  dreamer;  the  man  of  action  is  generally 
immoral.  The  combination  of  the  two  results  in  a  fool 
and  a  failure." 

"Then  I  shall  keep  to  my  dreams!"  said  Myles. 

"  Do.  I'm  afraid  that  old  scoundrel  of  a  gamekeeper, 
who  wouldn't  let  me  have  a  run  of  a  hare,  has  demor- 
aUsed  you." 

"His  company  is  more  wholesome  than  that  of  the 
Shanavests  and  Caravats  down  there,"  said  Myles. 
"Anything,  anything,  but  the  degradation  of  pohtics." 

"So  you  have  made  Cleary  a  partner?"  said  Father 
James,  changing  the  subject. 

"Yes!  I  was  going  downhill.  The  people  were  not 
paying  their  debts.  Rich  customers  ran  up  bills  of 
forty  or  fifty  pounds,  paid  ten  pounds  on  account,  and 
then  ran  up  to  sixty.  The  poor  were  more  decent;  but 
the  fact  is  there  is  no  such  thing  as  regular  payments 
now;  and,  as  you  know,  we  have  but  three  months' 
credit." 

"Franklin  came  down  on  you?" 

"Yes.  He  found  I  was  hopelessly  out  of  date.  I 
wasn't  going  with  the  times.  I  wasn't  doing  business 
according  to  modern  methods.  Tell  me,  Father  James, 
when  were  the  Ten  Commandments  aboHshed?  No 
one  keeps  them  now." 

"The  country  was  never  better,  man!"  said 
Father  James.  "  Look  at  your  Confraternities  and 
Sodahtics." 


282  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"I  was  speaking  about  the  Ten  Commandments, 
Father  James!" 

"Look  at  the  increased  number  of  communicants; 
look  at  the  beautiful  churches  — " 

"  I  was  speaking  of  the  Ten  Commandments,  Father 
James!" 

"The  convents,  the  orphanages,  the  schools,  the 
hospitals,  the  asylums  — " 

"I  was  speaking  of  the  Ten  Commandments,  Father 
James!" 

"Nonsense,  man!  Be  practical!  The  country  was 
never  so  free  from  crime.  Look  at  your  quarter  ses- 
sions. The  County  Court  Judges  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  their  dozens  of  white  gloves  — " 

"I  was  speaking  of  the  Ten  Commandments,  Father 
James." 

"And  so  am  I.  The  judges  at  the  Assizes  confess, 
and  I'm  sure  reluctantly  enough,  that  the  country  is 
almost  crimeless." 

"All  that  may  be  true.  Father  James,  and  yet  vice 
may  predominate.  Crime  and  vice  are  two  very  dif- 
ferent things.  A  crime  may  be  committed  under  a 
sudden  impulse,  and  may  be  no  indication  of  a  bad 
nature.  Vice  corrodes  and  eats  away  under  the  surface; 
and  a  man  may  be  practising  it  in  every  form,  com- 
mercial and  otherwise,  and  yet  the  policeman's  hand 
may  never  rest  upon  his  shoulder.  That  is  what 
modern  education  has  helped  the  nation  to  accompHsh. 
Who  can  say  it  is  a  failure?" 

"You  take  gloomy  views  of  things,"  said  Father 
James.  "I  am  afraid  old  Halhssey  has  bewitched  you 
with  Columbkille's  prophecies.  But  remember,  the 
best  way  to  make  people  good,  is  to  tell  them  they're 
good.     And  'tis  the  spirit  of  Christianity  to  be  always 


A  STORY  OF   '67  283 

cheerful.  'Gaudeamus!'  said  St.  Paul.  'Gaudeie, 
iterum  dico,  gaudete!'  The  fact  is,  Myles,  you  must  get 
married.  Between  those  books  and  Owen  Hallissey, 
you'll  become  a  melancholic  patient.  Do  you  know 
who  was  asking  particularly  about  you  lately?" 

"No!  some  creditor,  I  suppose!" 

"No!  But  your  old  friend,  Mrs.  Rendall  —  Mary 
Carleton!" 

"Friend?  Why,  I  never  spoke  to  the  lady  in  my 
life." 

"Nevertheless,  she  is  a  friend  of  yours.  Of  course 
you  know  why  she  got  Rendall  long  ago  to  arrest  you?  " 

"Yes!  Poor  Halpin  told  me;  and  quite  lately  Agnes 
confirmed  it." 

"You  can  guess  why!" 

"Because  Agnes,  the  little  goose,  went  to  her  and 
asked  her  to  save  me  from  the  rising." 

"Quite  true.  But  you  think  she  had  no  personal 
interest  in  the  matter." 

"Hardly.  Besides  that  is  ancient  history.  Father 
James." 

"Of  course.  She  is  an  excellent  woman,  however, 
and  is  bringing  up  her  children  well.  She  is  doing  all 
in  her  power  to  make  that  young  lad  of  hers  a  National- 
ist, or,  I  should  say,  a  patriot." 

"That  is  surprising  in  these  days,  when  every  young 
lad  is  taught  he  has  no  country.  And  —  his  father 
was  a  police  officer!" 

"That's  the  most  surprising  thing  about,  it,"  said 
Father  James.  "I  wonder  where  she  got  those 
ideas?" 

"I  cannot  surmise.  Has  she  West  Anglia  on  her 
notepaper?  The  Scotch  have  N.B.,  and  surely  it  is 
time  for  us  to  acknowledge  ourselves  Britons." 


284  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"  We  shall  never  come  to  that,"  said  the  priest. 
"By  the  way,  Agnes  is  to  be  professed  very  soon?" 

"I  beUeve  so." 

"I  hope  she  will  invite  Mrs.  Kendall  and  her  daughter. 
They  were  very  old  friends." 

"I  believe  the  Superiors  do  all  that!"  said  Myles. 
He  was  anxious  to  get  away  from  the  conversation. 

"But  they  always  consult  the  friends!" 

"If  I  am  consulted  I  shall  say,  No!"  said  Myles, 
rather  sullenly. 

"I  must  give  you  up,  and  leave  you  to  your  dreams 
and  Owen  Hallissey,"  said  Father  James. 


XL 

Who  was  Owen  Hallissey?  He  was  a  character, 
and  a  famous  one.  He  belonged  to  a  type,  which  has 
almost  vanished  from  Ireland,  —  a  caretaker  and  a 
fierce  Nationalist  serving  under  an  uncompromising 
evictor  and  tyrant;  an  almost  illiterate  man,  who 
could,  however,  quote  the  Old  Testament  and  Ossian;  a 
servant,  absolutely  faithful  to  a  man  whom  he  detested; 
an  unconscious  wit,  and  yet  a  simple,  guileless  man  — 
just  the  one  after  Myles  Cogan's  own  heart. 

Myles  had  known  him  from  boyhood.  Many  a 
day  he  spent  in  that  humble  cabin  there  in  the  deep 
valleys  of  Glenmorna,  dying  to  get  a  shot  at  a  hare,  yet 
always  afraid  of  the  stern  gamekeeper.  And  then, 
when  there  was  no  chance  of  fun,  Myles  would  turn  to 
the  old  senachie,  and  Usten  for  hours  to  tales  of  Mile- 
sian heroes,  old  prophecies,  wild,  strange  legends  of 
saint  or  hero,  until  the  evening  fell,  and  he  had  to 
hurry  home  to  meet  his  father  at  the  evening  meal. 

After  the  rising,  and  the  long  imprisonment  in  Dart- 
moor, Myles  became  a  hero  to  the  lonely  man;  and  it 
was  a  ray  of  sunshine  across  the  floor  of  his  mountain 
cabin,  when  Myles  crossed  its  threshold. 

Hardly  a  Sunday  passed,  in  which  the  latter,  after 
the  midday  meal,  did  not  walk  up  the  steep  mountain 
road  that  leads  to  the  summit  of  the  hill,  facing  south, 
and  from  which  deep  glens  and  ravines  ran  in  all  direc- 
tions. In  summer,  he  would  fling  himself  on  the  purple 
heather,  and  looking  out  leisurely  with  intense  affec- 


286  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

tion  at  the  landscape  spread  before  him,  Usten  to  the 
old  man  talking  of  the  old  times,  and  the  people  that 
were  gone,  and  recaUing  many  an  incident  that  was  then 
of  enthralling  interest,  but  to  which  modern  Ireland  is 
utterly  indifferent.  On  all  these  visits  Myles  brought 
with  him  a  welcome  present  in  the  share  of  three 
ounces  of  very  black  tobacco,  and  a  package  of  snuff. 
The  Sunday  INIyles  failed  to  come  was  a  lonesome 
prelude  to  a  lonesome  week  for  the  old  man. 

The  Sunday  after  his  last  conversation  with  Father 
James,  Myles  clambered  up  the  lonely  mountain  side, 
and  descended  into  the  valley  where  Owen  Hallissey 
had  his  cabin.  It  was  one  of  the  old  cabins,  of  which 
hardly  a  trace  is  left  in  Ireland.  The  walls  of  mud 
were  hardened  into  a  kind  of  concrete,  which  not  only 
excluded  the  least  damp,  but  was  proof  against  the  fierce 
hurricanes  that  frequently  in  the  winter  time  sweep  up 
along  the  valleys.  There  was  one  tiny  window  about 
a  foot  square,  a  half-door,  flanked  by  a  full  door  of 
strong  red  pine,  a  heavy  and  comfortable  coat  of  thatch 
through  which  projected  the  chimney,  also  of  mud,  but 
bound  around  with  sugans,  or  ropes  of  twisted  straw, 
as  if  to  secure  it  against  the  storms.  Inside,  was  one 
room,  which  served  as  kitchen  and  bedroom  for  the 
old  man.  His  bed  was  in  a  corner  near  the  fire,  which 
lay  upon  an  open  hearth,  and  poured  its  smoke  through 
the  great  wide  chimney  that  was  such  a  feature  in 
Irish  homesteads.  Near  the  fire  was  always  stretched, 
except  when  on  duty  with  his  master,  his  faithful 
sheepdog.  Tiger. 

When  Myles  entered  unceremoniously,  the  dog 
gave  a  short  bark,  and  then  whined  ^\'ith  joy  at  recognis- 
ing a  friend.  It  woke  up  the  old  man,  who  was  slum- 
bering near  the  fire. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  287 

"Good-day,  Owen!"  said  Myles,  cheerfully.  "Tak- 
ing a  little  snooze?" 

"Begor,  I  suppose  I  was  asleep,  Master  Myles," 
said  the  old  man.  "The  ould  age  is  comin'  on 
me." 

"Never  mind.  You  have  many  a  good  year  before 
you  yet,  Owen,"  said  Myles.  "You  are  not  Uke  the 
poor  little  spalpeens  of  the  present  day,  who  are  old 
men  at  thirty.  Come  out,  and  let  us  have  a  breath  of 
fresh  air.     'Tis  a  grand  day,  glory  be  to  God!" 

They  sat  on  the  rich  clump  of  heather  that  crested 
a  little  hill  some  distance  away  from  the  house.  Or 
rather,  Myles,  after  lighting  his  briarwood  pipe  lay 
at  full  length  on  the  heather,  and  the  old  man  sat  near 
him.  He  was  a  hale  old  fellow,  over  six  feet  high. 
His  face  and  neck  were  deeply  wrinkled;  but  there 
was  not  a  sign  of  decrepitude  about  him.  His  cordu- 
roy knee-breeches  were  open  at  the  knees,  the  strings 
hanging  loose.  His  legs  were  cased  in  thick  grey 
woollen  stockings;  and  on  his  feet  were  brogues 
that  defied  wet  heather  ami  reeking  grass,  and  even  the 
snows  that  lay  feet  deep  on  the  ground  in  the  winter 
time. 

"That  word  you  said,  Master  Myles,"  said  the  old 
man,  when  he  had  filled  and  Ughted  the  old  black  clay 
pipe,  "makes  me  think." 

"What  word?"  said  Myles. 

"Shpalpeens!"  said  Owen,  chuckhng  a  Uttle  to 
himself.  "That's  just  what  they  are  —  a  parcel  of 
shpalpeens." 

"Now,  honestly,  Owen,"  said  Myles,  "do  you 
believe  that  the  men  and  women  of  today  are  not  the 
equals  of  them  that  you  knew." 

"Aiquals  in  what  way?"  said  the  old  man. 


288  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Every  way,"  said  Myles.  "Are  they  as  big  and 
strong  and  courageous  and  'dacent'  as  the  old  people?" 

"Wisha,  faix,  then,  they  aren't,"  was  the  reply. 
"As  to  strinth,  they're  no  more  to  the  ould  people, 
than  a  hare  is  to  my  hound;  as  to  dacency,  the  less 
said  the  better." 

"I  wonder  Columbkille  did  not  prophesy  that!" 
said  Myles,  roguishly. 

"Yerra,  sure  he  did.  Sure  everyone  heard  of  the 
prophecy:  'When  the  min  grow  down,  hke  a  cow's 
tail,  and  the  people  are  atin'  one  another's  flesh,  the 
ind  of  the  wurruld  is  at  hand.'" 

"I  never  heard  that  before,"  said  Myles. 

"Yerra,  sure  you've  only  to  look  at  the  priests. 
Master  Myles,"  said  Owen.  "Instid  of  the  fine, 
grauver,  big  men  we  knew,  they're  like  little  caushtheens. 
Of  course,  I'm  saying  nothing  against  the  clergy,  God 
forbid!  but  that  they're  not  so  current  as  the  ould 
men." 

"I  beUeve  they're  great  friends  of  yours?"  said 
Myles.  "Was  it  true  what  they  tell,  that  you  allowed 
Dr.  C  —  to  shoot  on  the  mountain  but  you  wouldn't 
let  him  fire  until  you  told  him,  and  then  the  hare  was 
a  mile  away." 

The  old  man  chuckled  and  coughed.  The  smoke 
had  gone  the  wrong  way. 

"The  young  prieshts  do  be  telling  them  shtories  at 
the  Stations,"  he  said,  after  recovering  himself. 
"They're  purty  jokers  sometimes.  Sure,  I  never  in- 
trudes on  them;  but  the  ould  prieshts  would  never  sit 
down  to  brekfus,  unless  I  was  forninst  thim.  But  I 
never  goes  in  now,  unless  I'm  axed.  But,  sure  that's 
nearly  always.  The  man  of  the  house  is  sometimes  sly, 
and  he  sez,  'Come  in,  Owen,  and  discoorse  the  clergy'; 


A  STORY  OF  '67  289 

and  the  byes  push  me  in,  and  say:  'Give  them  the 
Jebusites,  Owen!'  but  I'm  not  as  much  at  me  aise,  as 
in  the  ould  times.  Why,  av  wan  of  these  young  min 
sees  a  speck  of  soot  or  dust  in  a  cup  as  small  as  the 
pint  of  a  pin,  he  blows  his  breath  at  it;  and  if  the  ould 
woman  takes  it  and  gives  it  a  rub  wit'  her  apron,  he'll 
hardly  take  his  tay  out  of  it.  Ah,  God  be  wit'  the  ould 
min.  Begor,  they'd  drink  out  of  the  same  cup  with 
meself." 

Myles  smoked  placidly.  The  old  man's  conversa- 
tion soothed  him. 

"You  aften  hard  me  tell  of  poor  Father  Maurice," 
continued  the  old  man. 

Myles  nodded. 

"Ah!  He  was  the  grand  man  intirely.  I  never  saw 
his  aiqual  here  or  there.  He  was  a  big  man,  and  he 
always  rode  a  fine  horse.  Gor-an-ages,"  cried  the 
old  man,  enthusiastically,  "to  see  him  take  a  six-foot 
ditch,  his  silk  hat  left  behind  him,  and  his  coat  tails 
traiUng  in  the  wind,  'twould  make  the  dead  dance  in 
their  graves.  Well,  we  had  a  station  down  at  the  Pike 
wan  morning.  'Twas  at  the  widow  Quilty's  house  — 
a  dacent  good  'uman  she  was,  God  be  merciful  to  her, 
and  to  all  the  sowls  of  the  faithful  departed." 

He  lifted  his  old  hat  reverently;  and  Myles,  taking 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  followed  his  example. 

There  was  a  pause,  as  there  always  is  in  Ireland, 
when  their  dead  are  mentioned.  It  sets  them  think- 
ing of  many  things. 

"Well,  sure  they're  wid  God,"  continued  the  old 
man,  "and  we  may  lave  them  rest.  But,  as  I  was 
saying,  before  the  Station  kem  round,  and  when  it 
was  published  for  Widda  Quilty,  wan  of  the  nabors, 
who  thought  a  dale  about  herself,  being  some  kind  of 


290  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

cousin  to  a  parish  priest,  kem  up  to  the  Widda,  and  sez 
she  to  her:  'I'm  tould  ye're  going  to  have  a  station  nex' 
Tuesday,  Mrs.  Quilty?'  'So  we  are,  ma'am,'  sez  the 
widda.  'I  suppose  Father  Maurice  will  be  comin',' 
sez  she.  'I  hope  so,  ma'am,'  sez  the  widda.  'I  sup- 
pose you  know  he's  fond  of  griddle-cake/  sez  the 
woman.  'So  they  sez,  ma'am,'  sez  Mrs.  Quilty. 
'Now,'  sez  the  'uman  —  Mrs.  Morarty  was  her  name 
—  'I  know  what  he  likes  better  nor  any  one  else;  and 
I'll  make  that  cake  for  him  and  have  it  up  here  on 
Monday  night,  an'  'twill  spare  you  a  lot  of  trouble.' 
'Wisha,  thin,  Mrs.  Morarty,'  sez  Mrs.  Quilty,  'not 
making  little  of  you,  me  own  little  girl,  Ellie,  can  make 
a  cake  as  well  as  any  wan  in  the  parish.'  'I  know,  I 
know,'  sez  Mrs.  Morarty,  soothering  her,  'but  I  know 
Father  Maurice's  tastes  betther.  Now,  lave  it  in 
my  hands;  and  you  won't  be  sore  nor  sorry.'  'What- 
ever you  like,  ma'am,'  sez  Widda  Quilty,  'sure  you 
were  always  the  good  nabor.'  Well,  the  Station  morn- 
ing came;  and  while  the  ould  parish  priest  was  calling 
the  list.  Father  Maurice  shtrolled  into  the  little  parlour, 
where  the  breakfus'  was  laid  out.  There  were  the 
cups  and  saucers,  and  the  grand  butther,  and  the  crame 
an  inch  thick;  and  there  were  the  cakes  likewise  — 
Mrs.  Morarty's  and  EUie  Quilty's.  Poor  Father 
Maurice  took  up  Mrs.  Morarty's  first;  and  weighed  it 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Begobs,  'twas  as  heavy  as 
lead  with  currans  and  raisins,  and  some  yalla  things, 
I  forget  —  " 

"Lemon-peel!"  suggested  Myles. 

"The  very  thing,"  continued  Owen.  "Well,  he 
weighed  it,  and  weighed  it;  and  then  he  pushed  it  over 
to  where  the  ould  parish  priest  would  be  settin';  and 
he  took  up  the  Uttle  squares  of  griddle  cake  that  Ellie 


A  STORY  OF  '67  291 

Quilty  had  made.  Yerra,  they  were  as  Ught  as  the 
noneens,  or  the  things  the  childre'  do  be  telUng  what 
o'clock  it  is  by  in  the  meadows;  and  faix,  he  put  it 
down  on  his  plate,  an'  drew  over  the  dish  with  the  rest 
of  the  squares  upon  it,  and  put  it  near  himself — " 

"I  hope  he  cleared  it  all  away!"  said  Myles. 

"Divil  a  crumb  he  left  av  it!"  said  Owen.  "Sure 
'twas  the  joke  of  half  the  country  after.  But  I  am 
only  showing  what  fine  min  the  ould  prieshts  was;  the 
young  prieshts  nowadays  wouldn't  tetch  a  piece  of 
cake  or  home-made  bread  if  you  paid  'em  for  it." 

"But  are  you  able  to  discourse  them,  Owen?"  said 
Myles,  "the  same  as  in  the  old  times?" 

"I  am,  and  I  aren't,"  said  Owen.  "They  try  to 
take  a  rise  out  of  me  sometimes;  but,  begor,  I  inds  by 
taking  the  rise  out  of  thim.  Wan  of  thim  sez  wan  day 
to  me  up  there  at  Mulcahy's  along  the  Bog  road,  'do 
you  beheve,  Owen,  that  Tobias'  dog  wagged  his  tail?' 
'And  sure,  why  wouldn't  I  beheve  it,  yer  reverence,' 
sez  I,  'an'  it  is  in  the  Scriptures?'  'But  'twas  such  a 
small  thing,'  sez  he,  'sure  what  differ  do  it  make  to  us 
whether  he  wagged  his  tail,  or  didn't?  'The  man,"  sez 
I,  'that  would  tell  me  a  lie  in  a  small  thing,  I  wouldn't 
beheve  him  in  a  big  wan.'  'Good  man,  Owen,'  sez  the 
parish  priesht,  'that's  worth  all  the  commentatories  have 
sed  on  the  matther.'  'And  now  'tis  your  turn,  Owen,' 
sez  he.'  'Give  it  to  'em  hot  and  heavy!'  'Did  you 
ever  hear  tell  of  Aroer,'  sez  I,  to  the  young  curate, 
'samesby  he  had  a  B — a,  Ba,  or  an  A-b,  Ab,  to  his 
name.'  'No,'  sez  he,  'what  was  it?'  'That's  what 
I'm  axin'  yer  reverence,'  sez  I.  'A  roarer?'  sez  he. 
*  Why  every  wan  knows  what  a  roarer  is  —  a  broken- 
winded  ould  garron.'  'Consult,'  sez  I,  'the  Book  of 
Numbers,    chapter   thirty-two,    and   you'll    find    your 


292  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

mistake.'  'Wan  for  you,  Owen/  sez  the  ould  parish 
priest,  winking  at  me.  'What  were  the  two  rivers,' 
sez  I,  'that  wathered  the  plain  of  Damascus?'  He 
was  floored  agen.  'Two  for  you,  Owen,'  sez  the  ould 
man,  laughing.  'There's  only  wan  more  to  win  the 
rubber.'  'In  what  book  of  the  ould  Testament,'  sez 
I,  'are  salts  and  Senna  foUying  wan  another?'  The 
poor  bye  looked  at  me,  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head. 
But  he  hadn't  a  word  in  him.  '  Three  for  you,  Owen,' 
sez  the  ould  man;  and  begobs,  he  shpoke  so  loud,  that 
the  byes  heard  him  down  in  the  kitchen;  and  they  wor 
laughin'  theirselves  sick.  But  the  wimmin  were  as 
mad  as  blazes;  the  wimmin  are  always  on  the  priests' 
side,  you  know;  and  they  said  I  was  an  ould  hambug, 
and  that  I'd  betther  be  minding  ould  Colonel  Ivors' 
hares  than  attimptin'  to  bate  these  learned  gintlemen." 

"Why  didn't  you  fling  Ossian  at  the  young  priest?" 
said  Myles.     "You  had  him  there  entirely." 

"Av  course,"  said  Owen,  "but  I'd  rather  bate  him 
on  his  own  ground.  An'  that  reminds  me  that  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  after  a  lot  of  readin'  and 
refiectin'  that  the  prophet  Jeremiah  was  either  an 
Irishman,  or  shpint  some  time  here.  Where  else  could 
he  get  thim  'Lamentations'?  Now,  every  wan  knows 
that  the  Irish  had  their  lamantations,  from  ould  Ossian 
down  to  the  keeners,  and  from  the  keeners  down  to 
the  ballad  singers  at  the  fair  and  the  market  —  and 
sure  Ossian  —  I  mane  his  books  —  are  all  wan  long 
keen!" 

"Fighting  and  lamenting,"  said  Myles,  rising  up 
from  his  bed  of  heather.  "That's  our  history,  I 
suppose." 

"They  were  great  men  in  these  ould  times,"  said 
Owen.     "  Even  their  names  had  a  mouthful  in  'em,  — 


A  STORY  OF  '67  293 

Conlath  and  Cuchullin  and  Cuthona,  Bragella  and 
Sul-malla,  Calmar  and  Matha  and  Slimorra,  Erragon 
and  Alcletha  and  Temora  —  'tis  like  a  grand  ould 
song  from  the  ould  hayroic  days.  Ah!  'tis  many  an 
hour  I  shpinds,  talkin'  over  to  meself  and  conshthruin' 
thim  ould  legends;  and  many  a  winther's  night,  when 
the  black  clouds  do  be  racin'  before  the  blasht,  and 
the  white  moon  like  the  banshee  running  agen  thim, 
and  the  little  stars  quinched  now,  and  thin  lookin'  out 
agen  with  their  blue  eyes  —  ah!  many  a  winther's 
night  did  I  shpind,  with  the  ould  people,  and  their 
battles  and  their  songs,  an'  their  lamentations,  ontil 
I  began  to  think  I  was  wan  of  theirsels,  and  that  it 
was  up  here  in  Glenmorna  they  were  fightin';  and  thin 
I  goes  down  from  all  the  glory  and  the  music  and  I 
finds  nothin'  below  there  but  a  pack  of  pizawns  and 
kinats,  who  are  watchin'  me  to  see  where  I'm  goin'  to 
lave  me  tuppence  for  a  pint  of  porther  —  ah,  Masther 
Myles,  will  the  grand  ould  times  ever  come  back 
again?" 

"I  fear  not,  Owen,"  said  Myles,  "but,  at  any  rate, 
the  past  is  ours.  They  cannot  rob  us  of  that!  Good- 
day!" 

"Good-bye  and  good  luck!"  said  Owen. 

Myles  went  down  from  the  mountain;  j'et  he  lin- 
gered long,  here  and  there,  with  all  his  passionate  love 
for  Ireland  kindled  and  inflamed  by  the  magnificent 
scenes  that  lay  before  him.  The  vast  plain  that 
stretched  downwards  and  onwards  to  where  the  cloud- 
like and  faintly-pencilled  Galtees  rose  into  the  skies, 
was  bathed  in  sunshine,  which  glittered  here  and  there 
on  the  surface  of  some  stream  or  river.  White  flakes 
of  cirrus  cloud,  infinitely  diversified  in  form  and  colour- 
ing, filled  the  skj'^  from  horizon  to  horizon.     And  look- 


294  THE.  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

ing  back  he  saw  the  summits  of  Glenmorna  touched 
more  faintly  by  the  sun,  and  purple  shadows  filling  all 
her  valleys. 

"Yes!     God  made  our  land  for  heroes,"   he  said. 
"But  alas!  where  are  they?" 


XLI 


The  profession  of  Sister  Ciaran  was  an  event  in 
itself;  and  a  great  break  in  the  monotony  of  Myles 
Cogan's  life.  Agnes  had  begged  for  that  Irish  saint's 
name;  and  she  had  obtained  her  wish;  and  with  all 
the  pomp  and  ceremony  of  the  Church,  and  all  the 
tenderness  and  sublimity  that  surround  a  young  novice 
taking  her  final  vows,  she  passed  through  the  ordeal, 
which  was  also  a  triumph  for  her.  She  had  delayed 
too  long  her  entrance  into  religion,  chiefly  for  Myles' 
sake;  and  her  novitiate  was,  therefore,  more  trying, 
but  she  passed  through  its  little  difficulties  quietly, 
her  gentle,  pliant  spirit  making  it  easy  for  her  to  sur- 
mount every  obstacle. 

There  was  a  pretty  large  gathering  of  priests  and 
laity.  The  former  were  invited  ex  officio;  and  although 
neither  Agnes  nor  Myles  had  made  many  friends,  yet 
somehow  on  occasions  like  these,  friends  will  arise  — 
old  convent  fellow-pupils,  a  few  from  Kilmorna,  a 
remote  relative  here  and  there,  and  —  Mrs.  Kendall. 

Myles  found  the  scene  rather  embarrassing.  He  fol- 
lowed from  the  front  bench  in  the  little  convent  chapel 
the  solemn  and  touching  ceremony  with  interest  and 
emotion.  He  recognised  the  genius  of  the  Church  in 
her  mystic  formulas;  and  the  strain  of  majestic  poetry 
that  ran  through  all  these  hymns  and  prayers  and 
seemed  to  lift  the  souls  of  men  on  the  wings  of  inspira- 
tion towards  heaven. 


296  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

It  was  a  little  shock  to  him,  as  it  is  to  all  Irish  souls, 
to  come  out  from  such  an  atmosphere  of  holiness  and 
dignity,  filled  as  it  was  with  the  perfume  of  prayer  and 
sacred  music,  and  to  have  to  descend  to  the  common- 
places of  life. 

Then  he  felt  what  a  lonely  and  solitary  man  he  was. 
The  one  great  human  tie  in  life  was  broken;  and,  with 
the  exception  of  Father  James,  he  felt  he  was  absolutely 
friendless  and  companionless. 

There  was  some  whispering  between  Father  James 
and  the  priests  who  thronged  the  corridor  outside  the 
nun's  refectory,  and  some  curious  glances  directed 
towards  himself.  Then,  a  few  of  the  older  priests 
came  towards  him,  and  ground  his  fingers  in  the  palms 
of  their  hands,  murmuring  something  about  his  martyr- 
dom, which  was  to  them  a  thing  of  yesterday;  and  one 
old  man,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  said: 

"I'll  die  easy  now  that  I  have  seen  you!" 

The  Bishop  shook  Myles  cordially  by  the  hand; 
and  taking  him  affectionately  by  the  arm  led  him  up 
to  the  table,  and  placed  him  at  his  right  hand.  Mrs. 
Rendall  was  placed  at  the  Bishop's  left. 

All  was  so  far  smooth  and  delightful;  but  now  Myles 
was  tortured  by  the  fear  that  the  Bishop  would  for- 
mally introduce  him  to  Mrs.  Rendall.  Most  fortu- 
nately, Agnes  came  in,  in  all  the  glory  of  her  black  veil, 
knelt  for  the  Bishop's  blessing,  shook  hands  with  Myles, 
then  went  the  round  of  the  table  to  receive  the  felicita- 
tions of  the  priests  and  guests,  and  finally  settled  down 
at  Myles'  side  for  a  good  long  chat,  leaving  the  Bishop 
to  entertain  his  guest  on  the  left. 

"Are  you  happy?"  said  Myles,  affectionately,  to  his 
sister. 

"Supremely.     Nothing  could  equal  the  kindness  of 


A  STORY  OF  '67  297 

the  Sisters  and  Reverend  Mother.  They  didn't  know 
what  to  do  for  me!" 

"That's  very  good,"  said  Myles.  "Who  in  the 
world  are  all  these  grand  people?" 

And  Agnes,  without  looking,  was  able  to  tell  him  all 
and  everything  about  everybody.  And  then,  she 
whispered: 

"Mrs.  Kendall  —  Mary  Carleton,  you  know,  is  next 
to  the  Bishop.     Did  he  introduce  you?" 

"No,  thank  God!"  said  Myles,  fervently.  "I  was 
in  mortal  dread  all  along!" 

"But  why,  Myles?  She  is  my  oldest  friend;  and 
I'm  sure  she  would  like  to  speak  to  you!" 

"'Twould  be  embarrassing  to  both  of  us,"  he  replied. 
"Better  leave  well  alone!" 

After  a  little  time,  the  Bishop  rose,  put  on  his  white 
stole  and  blessed  the  Profession  Cake;  and  shortly 
afterwards,  he  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Kendall  and 
Myles,  and  retired. 

Myles  whispered  to  his  sister: 

"You  mustn't  leave  Mrs.  Kendall  alone.  Go  and 
speak  with  her.  I'll  meet  you  later  on,  on  the 
grounds." 

Then  he  rose  up,  and  moved,  with  downcast  eyes, 
along  the  row  of  tables,  and  passed  into  the  corridor. 
He  was  eager  to  escape  into  the  garden,  where  he  could 
be  alone  with  his  own  thoughts;  but  he  was  instantly 
surrounded  by  a  little  crowd  of  the  Sisters,  who  gal- 
lantly introduced  one  another  to  him;  and  then  he 
had  to  stand  a  cross-fire  of  questions  —  about  Slieve- 
Ruadh,  the  death  of  Halpin,  his  trial,  his  imprisonment, 
the  deadly  ten  years  in  Dartmoor. 

"It's  all  ancient  history.  Sisters,"  he  said.  "These 
things  occurred  so  many  years  ago,  and  are  forgotten." 


298  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Are  they?"  said  a  nun,  whose  face  bore  marks  of 
great  beauty,  although  she  was  middle-aged. 

She  put  in  his  hands  a  slip,  or  cutting  from  a  news- 
paper. He  glanced  at  it.  It  was  frayed  and  yellow. 
It  was  his  speech  from  the  dock. 

"Don't  think,  Mr.  Cogan,  that  we  are  all  lost,"  she 
said.  "With  all  this  trumpeting  about  modern  poli- 
ticians, some  of  us  think  more  of  our  martyrs  than  of 
their  mimics." 

He  looked  steadily  into  the  Sister's  eyes.  They 
were  calm,  yet  there  was  a  gleam  of  enthusiasm  also 
there.     He  said  calmly: 

"Yes!  That  too  is  a  symptom  and  a  symbol.  I 
was  told  a  few  weeks  ago  by  a  Thuringian  gentleman 
far  down  in  Germany  that  the  march  of  democracy  had 
crushed  every  symbol  under  foot.  But,  behold!  I 
have  been  face  to  face  with  them  all  this  morning;  and 
they  seem  eternal.  And  now,  just  think!  That  one 
soul  should  have  treasured  for  so  many  years  these 
words  of  mine!" 

"My  father  gave  them  to  me  on  his  death  bed," 
said  the  nun,  "  and  bade  me  never  part  with  them.  He, 
too,  was  out  in  '67." 

"Ah!"  said  Myles,  "everything  then  is  not  lost. 
I  thought  all  was  dead  and  gone." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Sister,  "but,  Mr.  Cogan,  we  don't 
understand  why  men  like  you  should  shut  yourselves 
up  in  a  hermitage,  like  a  Carthusian  monk,  when  your 
country  calls  you." 

"Alas!  my  country  has  not  called  me,"  he  said,  "I 
have  been  told  in  all  forms  of  expression  that  I  am  out 
of  date,  and  I  have  accepted  that  verdict." 

"A  true  patriot  is  never  out  of  date,"  she  said. 

"Sometimes,   and  then  he  is  stoned  or  crucified," 


A  STORY  OF  '67  299 

said  Myles;  and  his  brave  interlocutor  could  not  say 
nay.  "Would  you  tell  my  sister  I  shall  be  on  the  top- 
walk  in  the  garden." 

He  went  up  into  the  garden,  that  rose,  terrace  on 
terrace,  behind  the  convent.  He  was  dying  for  a 
smoke;  but  his  reverence  for  the  place  forbade  it. 
He  gave  himself  up  to  a  reverie,  a  favourite  luxury  of 
his.  The  fact  that  this  nun,  who  never  expected  to 
see  him,  should  have  treasured  as  a  precious  legacy 
that  slip  of  paper,  touched  him  deeply. 

"When  we  cast  the  seed,  we  never  know  where  it 
will  fall,"  he  said.     "Perhaps  —  " 

He  meant  that  he  was  about  to  examine  the  prudence 
of  his  abstention  from  public  life.  Would  it  not  be 
manlier  and  better  to  face  the  horrid  melee  of  modern 
politics  in  the  hope  that  the  presentation  of  truth 
might  be  accepted  even  by  a  few?  And,  suppose,  a 
man  went  down  in  the  fight,  beaten  and  dishonoured, 
would  it  not  be  better  than  a  career  of  ignoble  idleness? 
Then,  he  opened  the  morning  paper;  and,  after  a  few 
minutes,  he  chanced  on  a  certain  scene  that  had  taken 
place  the  day  before  at  an  important  Council  meeting. 
It  was  appalling.  He  crushed  the  paper  in  his  hands, 
and  said  aloud: 

"No!  no!  Better  the  solitude  of  Sahara  than  that!" 

Father  James  was  looking  down  at  him. 

"So  you  have  come  up  here,  Myles,"  he  said,  "to 
soliloquise  about  politics.  I  thought  you  had  made 
up  your  mind  about  the  Shanavests  and  Caravats 
years  ago?" 

"And  so  I  have.  Father  James,"  said  Myles.  "Sit 
down!  I  expect  Agnes  every  moment.  It  was  a  re- 
mark made  by  one  of  the  Sisters  that  set  me  a- 
thinking!" 


300  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Ah,  yes!  That  is  poor  Doheny's  daughter.  How 
the  thing  runs  in  the  blood.  We  can't  expel  it,  al- 
though, as  our  Thuringian  friend  expressed  it,  Patri- 
otism is  dead!" 

"The  ceremony  passed  off  well,"  said  Myles,  anxious 
to  get  away  from  the  subject. 

"Beautiful!"  said  Father  James.  He  didn't  under- 
stand tame  adjectives.  "And  Agnes  went  through 
her  part  well." 

"Yes!  And  the  Bishop  was  kind.  But,  Father 
James,  although  it  was  flattering  to  be  remembered 
by  that  good  Sister,  if  I  were  Bishop,  I  wouldn't  allow 
a  thought  of  anything  but  religion  and  God  to  enter 
within  these  walls." 

"Begor,  then,  you'd  have  to  build  them  a  good  deal 
higher,"  said  the  priest.  "These  nuns  have  Irish 
hearts;  and  you  cannot  sever  them  altogether  from 
their  country." 

"When  I  listened  to  that  'Ave  Maria'  during  Mass," 
said  Myles,  "I  thought  what  a  grand  thing  it  would  be 
to  die  then  and  there,  and  never  come  back  to  this  old 
clod  of  earth  again." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  the  practical  Father  James,  "but 
you  see  things  are  mixed  up  on  this  old  planet.  If 
we  were  to  be  listening  always  to  nuns  singing  in  choir, 
how  would  the  world  go  on?  Yes,  the  Lord  has  made 
a  judicious  mixture  of  life  —  prose  and  poetry,  night 
and  day,  pain  and  pleasure.  If  you  want  more  than 
your  share  of  these  good  things,  you  lose  all.  Here  is 
Agnes!" 

Myles  looked,  and  flushed  scarlet  and  grew  pale, 
when  he  saw  his  sister  on  the  terrace  beneath  him. 
Mrs.  Kendall  appeared  to  be  speaking  earnestly  to  her, 
and   remonstrating   with    her.     Then,  to   his   infinite 


A  STORY  OF   '67  301 

relief,  Mrs.  Rendall  stooped,  kissed  Agnes,  and  passed 
down  along  the  steep  walks. 

"Thank  God!"  murmured  Myles. 

Father  James  smiled,  and  said: 

"Now,  you  and  Agnes  have  a  lot  to  say  to  each 
other.  But  there  is  a  limit.  We  have  to  catch  the 
four  o'clock  train;  and  there  are  four  miles  to  the 
Junction  from  here.     Shall  I  say  three  o'clock?" 

"All  right!"  said  Myles. 

"Mind,  Agnes,  not  a  moment  later  than  three. 
Good-bye,  little  woman,  and  pray  for  us  —  out  in  the 
howling  wilderness  of  the  world." 


XLII 

There  are  no  secrets  in  the  world  today,  except 
those  of  the  Confessional;  and  the  States  of  the  world 
will  soon  endeavour  to  penetrate  even  these.  And, 
of  all  places  on  earth,  an  Irish  village  is  just  the  last 
spot  where  anything  can  be  said  or  done,  or  even 
thought  of,  without  its  being  known  within  twenty- 
four  hours  to  the  entire  community.  Hence  the  two- 
fold fact  that  Mr.  Franklin,  a  well-known  mill-owner 
and  wheat-importer,  had  been  closeted  with  Myles 
Cogan  for  several  hours;  and  that  Myles  Cogan  had 
taken  his  clerk  into  partnership,  was  talked  about  in 
every  drawing-room  and  taproom  in  the  village  with 
one  unanimous  and  simultaneous  conclusion,  that  Myles 
Cogan  was  a  bankrupt. 

Yet  Myles,  quite  conscious  of  his  own  solvency,  was 
kept  unaware  of  the  general  verdict  upon  him.  His 
very  aloofness  made  it  an  impertinence  for  anyone  to 
speak  to  him  about  his  private  affairs.  But  there  are 
certain  persons  who  never  know  what  an  impertinence 
is;  and  when  they  are  kicked  for  the  impertinence, 
they  wonder  why  some  people  are  born  thin-skinned 
and  sensitive. 

One  of  these,  named  Supple,  had  heard  of  Myles 
Cogan's  supposed  embarrassments,  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  administer  a  little  friendly  advice.  To  Myles, 
this  man,  now  past  middle  life,  was  particularly  obnox- 
ious.    He  was  one  of  those  who,  in  the  old  evil  days, 


A  STORY  OF  '67  303 

when  Kilmorna  was  a  borough,  was  reputed  to  have 
amassed  money  by  accepting  and  delivering  bribes 
ad  libitutn.  At  any  rate,  he  was  now  in  easy  circum- 
stances; lived  in  a  quiet,  cosy  private  house  in  the  centre 
of  the  village,  had  no  occupation  whatsoever  except 
the  giving  and  receiving  of  "news."  Every  morning 
after  breakfast  and  the  newspaper,  he  lit  his  pipe,  put 
his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  pea-jacket,  and,  after 
gazing  at  the  sky  for  some  minutes,  and  calculating  the 
signs  of  the  weather,  he  turned  to  the  left,  and  walked 
down  the  street  towards  the  Bridge,  nodding  right 
and  left  to  corner-boys  and  more  select  acquaintances, 
for,  as  he  often  said,  he  had  no  pride.  Although  he 
had  read  the  morning  paper  from  the  title-page  down 
to  the  printer's  name,  he  paused  at  the  news-vendor's, 
and  studied  the  bills  outside  the  door,  even  though 
sometimes  they  were  a  week  old.  He  paused  at  the 
barber's  shop,  where  there  was  always  a  little  Parlia- 
ment sitting,  listened  for  a  moment  to  the  debate,  and 
passed  on.  It  was  a  red-letter  day  for  him,  when  he 
met  one  of  the  local  curates,  button-holed  him,  and  held 
him  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  the  corner  of  a  street. 
He  generally  stopped  at  Miss  McDonnell's,  a  little 
millinery  shop,  where  all  local  scandals  were  sifted  and 
strained.  He  passed  by  the  Catholic  Church,  lifted 
his  hat,  but  never  went  in.  When  he  got  to  the  Bridge, 
he  relighted  his  pipe,  leaned  over  the  parapet,  and 
watched  the  river  meditatively,  all  the  time  keeping  an 
eye  open  for  some  chance  passenger,  who  would  stop, 
and  exchange  a  little  gossip.  Then,  he  would  stroll 
home  in  calm  equipoise  of  mind  and  body  to  his  midday 
meal,  after  which  he  emerged  again,  turned  now  to 
the  right,  and  made  his  rounds  of  the  upper  part  of  the 
little  town.     He  had  had  municipal  honours,  had  been 


304  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

P.L.G.  and  D.C.  for  his  district.  One  coveted  honour 
he  had  never  attained,  although  he  had  made  frantic 
efiforts  towards  it.  He  had  never  been  asked  to  sit 
on  the  bench  at  the  monthly  Petty  Sessions'  Court. 
This  was  all  the  more  strange,  inasmuch,  as  he  often 
declared,  he  had  helped  many  a  judge  on  to  the  King's 
Bench,  and  had  made  one  Lord  Chancellor.  But  he 
was  spoken  of  in  the  County  papers  as  the  best-known 
and  most  distinguished  citizen  at  Kilmorna. 

Myles  Cogan  had  a  nodding  acquaintance  with 
him;  and  did  not  seek  for  more.  He  was  very  much 
surprised,  therefore,  when,  the  morning  after  his  sister's 
profession,  as  he  was  busily  engaged  with  some  farmers 
at  his  little  mill,  he  saw  the  distinguished  citizen  enter 
the  mill-yard,  pipe  in  mouth,  hands  deep  in  the  pockets 
of  his  jacket,  and  with  his  usual  air  of  absolute  non- 
chalance. The  visitor  watched  for  a  while  with  a 
critical  eye  the  counting  and  heaving  in  of  bags  of  wheat 
and  oats,  the  sweating  labourers,  the  shrewd  farmers; 
and  then,  he  sidled  over  to  where  Myles  was  superin- 
tending, his  hat  and  coat  covered  with  fine  flour  or 
bran,  and  said,  with  all  the  airs  of  an  old  and  valued 
acquaintance: 

"Pretty  busy,  I  see!" 

"Yes!"  said  Myles,  without  looking  at  him. 

"It  is  the  best  feature  in  our  country  at  pres- 
ent," said  Supple,  "that  our  local  industries  are  so 
patronised." 

Myles  was  silent. 

"Now,  Mr.  Cogan,"  said  the  fellow,  "if  you  would 
only  combine  a  little  public  spirit  with  your  industrial 
zeal,  it  would  serve  you  and  the  country." 

"I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Myles,  turning  around  and  studying  the  man.     "And 


A  STORY  OF  '67  305 

besides,  I  am  extremely  busy  this  morning,  having 
been  absent  from  home  yesterday." 

The  visitor  declined  taking  the  hint,  and  went  on: 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  intrude  or  pry  into  your  private 
affairs,  Mr.  Cogan;  but  I  knew  your  father  well  — 
Dan  Cogan,  as  honourable  a  man  as  ever  lived;  and  I 
am  damned  sorry  you  haven't  walked  in  his  footsteps." 

That  expletive  denoted  a  certain  amount  of  honest 
indignation. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Myles,  coldly,  yet  he 
was  nettled  by  the  allusion. 

"He  was  a  business  man,  and  you  are  not,"  con- 
tinued Supple.  "He  was  up-to-date,  and  you  are 
behind  the  times;  he  was  interested  in  public  affairs, 
he  sought  public  honours  and  obtained  them;  and 
you  —  " 

"Well?"  said  Myles,  with  a  little  relaxation  and  a 
smile  that  gave  him  away. 

"Well,  you  choose  to  despise  the  people,  to  live  apart 
from  them,  and  they  hate  you.  Not  a  man  in  Kil- 
morna  but  was  delighted  to  hear  you  were  in  trouble." 

"In  trouble  with  whom?"  said  Myles,  flushing 
angrily. 

"With  your  creditors,  of  course." 

"And  who  was  so  kind  and  truthful  as  to  inform 
them  of  that?"  said  Myles,  with  difficulty  suppressing 
the  desire  to  put  the  fellow  outside  the  gate. 

"They  put  two  and  two  together,"  said  Supple, 
coolly,  "and  it  generally  makes  four.  Here  is  a  busi- 
ness man,  whose  customers  are  leaving  him;  here  is  a 
rival,  who  is  beating  him  hollow;  here  is  a  creditor, 
who  remains  for  hours  in  his  shop;  and  here  is  a  clerk, 
suddenly  advanced  to  partnership  —  what  does  all 
that  spell?" 


306  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"What?"  said  Myles. 

"Composition,"  said  Supple,  laconically.  "Now,  if 
you  had  entered  public  life,  and  accommodated  your- 
self to  the  people  around  you,  how  different  all  that 
would  be." 

"Explain.  I  don't  understand,"  said  Myles.  He 
was  anxious  to  know  what  was  in  this  fellow's  mind, 
which  was  also  the  mind  of  the  public. 

"Good  heavens!  you  are  hopelessly  backward,"  said 
Supple.  "Tell  me,  how  many  contracts  have  you  got 
since  you  opened  business?" 

"Contracts?     Not  one!"  said  Myles. 

"I  know  it.     But  you  tendered?" 

"Yes!"  said  Myles. 

"And  you  were  always  beaten?" 

"Always,  till  I  gave  it  up!" 

"Did  it  occur  to  you  why  you  were  beaten?" 

"My  prices  were  too  high,  I  suppose." 

"Not  higher  than  those  whose  tenders  were  ac- 
cepted," said  Supple. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  was  always  told  my  tenders  were  too 
high.     They  were  bound  to  accept  the  lowest!" 

Supple  chuckled  to  himself  and  breathed  out  a  column 
of  tobacco  smoke. 

"Blessed  are  the  innocent,"  he  said,  looking  curi- 
ously around.  "  Then  you  never  mixed  a  little  chopped 
straw  in  the  flour?" 

"Never!"  said  Myles. 

"And  you  never  put  a  couple  of  grains  of  shot  in 
the  bran  or  pollard?" 

"Never,"  said  Myles.  "I  heard  that  such  things 
were  done;   but  I  didn't,  and  do  not  believe  it." 

"And  you  never  kept  a  bottle  of  whiskey  in  the  back 
parlour?" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  307 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Supple,  this  is  a  painful  conversa- 
tion for  me,"  said  Myles.  "I  know  my  own  short- 
comings; I  know  I  am  not  up-to-date;  but  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  believe  that  public  life  in  Ireland  is 
so  corrupt  as  you  suggest.  I  believe  in  the  old  days, 
when  Kilmorna  was  a  borough,  strange  things  hap- 
pened and  large  fortunes  were  rapidly  made.  But 
to  ask  me  to  believe  that  commercial  immorality  is 
everywhere,  is  too  much.     Good-day!" 

Supple  nodded,  and  was  walking  out  the  gate,  when 
Myles  called  after  him. 

"And,  as  I  believe,  Mr.  Supple,"  he  said,  in  cold, 
sarcastic  tones,  that  would  have  raised  the  skin  on  an 
ordinary  man,  "in  the  absence  of  a  local  newspaper, 
you  are  herald  and  general  news  scavenger  in  Kilmorna, 
please  tell  your  good  inquisitive  neighbours,  who,  as 
you  say,  can  put  two  and  two  together,  that,  so  far 
from  being  bankrupt,  I  can  pay  my  creditors  fourfold, 
and  have  a  handsome  balance  in  the  bargain." 

Supple  whispered  softly  to  himself,  so  that  Myles 
could  not  hear  him: 

"Tell  that  to  the  Marines!" 

He  crossed  the  Bridge  in  excellent  temper.  That 
terrible  allusion  to  the  rapid  fortunes  that  were  made 
in  the  good  old  times,  did  not  disconcert  him  in  the 
least.  He  simply  made  up  his  mind  that  Myles  Cogan 
was  an  ass;  and  he  told  everybody  so.  He  told  Miss 
McDonnell.  She  snipped  a  thread  with  her  teeth, 
and  said: 

"He  should  have  married  years  ago!" 

"He's  too  sullen  a  fellow,"  said  Supple.  "No  girl 
would  look  at  him!" 

"Hundreds!"  said  the  milliner.  "He  could  have 
his  pick  and  choice  of  the  parish." 


308  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"I  admire  the  Kilmorna  tastes!"  said  Supple. 

"Isn't  he  handsome?"  said  the  little  milliner,  who 
suspected,  as  she  afterwards  explained,  "that  Supple 
had  got  his  lay."  "Isn't  he  the  beau  ideal  of  a  man? 
And  hasn't  he  got  means?  What  more  does  a  girl 
require?" 

"Means?  And  he  makes  that  old  craw-thumper, 
Cleary,  a  partner?  My  dear  Mary,  don't  try  to  be 
too  innocent!"  said  Supple. 

"I  know  it  looked  suspicious,"  said  the  milliner. 
"Old  Dan  Cogan  would  never  do  it.  But  where  could 
old  Mark  Cleary  make  all  the  money,  Mr.  Supple?" 

"Mary,  too  much  innocence  sits  badly  on  you. 
Good-day!"     And  Mr.  Supple  went  to  dinner. 


XLIII 

One  morning,  a  few  years  later,  Myles  Cogan,  after 
breakfast  and  a  glance  at  the  morning  paper,  happened 
to  look  up  at  a  certain  date  card,  or  time-table  in  the 
dining-room.  He  saw  that  it  was  April  the  10th,  and 
he  started. 

"My  birthday!"  he  said.     "How  many?" 

He  made  a  brief  calculation;  and  to  his  astonish- 
ment realised  the  momentous  fact  that  this  was  his 
sixtieth  birthday.  He  was  sixty  years  old.  Yes! 
He  had  passed  the  sixth  great  decadal  milestone;  and 
now  life,  instead  of  moving  up  an  inclined  plane,  would 
mean  a  facile  descent. 

"Sixty  years!"  he  said.  "I  must  soon  be  making 
my  soul.     Let  me  see!     When  was  I  in  Melleray  last?" 

He  consulted  a  diary;  and  found  it  was  five  years 
back.     A  good  many  things  had  happened  since  then. 

His  business  had  prospered.  He  left  the  entire 
management  of  the  shop  in  town  to  his  partner.  He 
limited  his  own  duties  to  a  supervision  of  the  mill  work. 
From  that  he  could  not  tear  himself  away.  The  old 
mill-wheel,  with  its  dripping  diamonds,  made  a  music 
which  he  had  listened  to  since  childhood,  when  he 
grasped  his  father's  coat  tails,  and  watched  with  dread 
and  curiosity  the  mighty  wheel  rolling  on  softly  and 
steadily,  drinking  up  the  water  from  the  mill-stream, 
and  softly  pouring  it  out  from  the  valves  again.  The 
rumbling  of  the  machinery  within;    the  atmosphere  of 


310  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

the  place,  white  with  dust  of  flour,  the  aspects  of 
the  workers  —  their  faces  also  drenched  with  flour,  the 
mill-leat,  so  deep  and  silent  and  smooth,  with  the 
long  green  sedges  and  leaves  swept  on  by  the  silent  tide, 
and  waving  with  each  breath  of  wind  or  ripple  of  sur- 
face, the  trout  hiding  beneath  the  soft  mud  bank,  the 
poplar  trees,  the  great  draught  horses  so  strong,  so 
meek,  so  patient,  the  sturdy  farmers  eager  to  bargain, 
but  eager  also  to  please  —  all  these  things,  little  in 
themselves,  made  a  picture,  which  could  not  be  torn 
from  his  book  of  life.     It  was  its  chief  illustration. 

Then,  too,  he  had  here  with  him  the  surviving  mem- 
bers of  the  "old  guard."  Many  of  the  '67  men  had 
passed  to  their  rest;  but  many  remained.  Not  one 
had  abandoned  him  in  his  moments  of  trial;  and  he 
had  stipulated  with  his  new  partner,  that  not  one  of 
them  should  be  dismissed,  but  should  be  honourably 
supported  when  unable  through  age  or  infirmity  to 
continue  his  work. 

The  mill-business,  dependent  a  good  deal  on  the 
shop  business,  had  gone  steadily  forward.  Things  were 
fairly  prosperous.  There  was  no  risk  now  of  complica- 
tions; and  Myles,  when  the  day's  work  was  over,  and 
the  mill-bell  rang  out  at  six  o'clock,  could  go  home, 
wash  up,  have  his  evening  meal,  and  sit  out  in  his 
garden  reading,  or  watching  the  sunset  playing  on  the 
old  castle  walls  without  apprehension,  or  a  sense  of 
neglect  of  his  daily  duties.  Yea,  the  evening  of  his 
life  seemed  to  be  closing  softly  and  peaceably  around 
him,  after  the  morning's  stormy  and  tumultuous  scenes. 

He  seemed  to  be  drifting  further  and  further  from 
public  life.  He  read  the  morning  paper;  watched  with 
languid  interest  the  course  of  that  wretched  gamble, 
called  politics;  then  went  back  to  his  poets  and  philoso- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  311 

phers,  and  grew  absorbed  in  the  serenity  of  their  ideas 
and  their  lives. 

Yes!  Nothing  remained  now  but  to  glide  down  the 
declivity  of  life  as  smoothly  as  possible  and  to  secure 
a  happy  end. 

That  same  morning  of  April  the  10th,  Mrs.  Rendall 
sat  at  her  drawing-room  window  after  breakfast.  It 
was  a  pretty  room,  daintily  furnished.  Wild  spring 
flowers  were  in  vases  everywhere;  and  a  few  late  hya- 
cinths filled  the  air  with  their  pungent  fragrance.  The 
bay  window  looked  out  on  a  pretty  lawn,  still  covered 
with  daffodils.  It  sloped  down  to  the  little  river, 
which  a  few  miles  farther  down  formed  the  mill-leat 
that  turned  the  mill-wheel  at  Myles  Cogan's.  Mrs. 
Rendall  was  busy,  sorting  and  reading  her  morning's 
post.  One  letter  she  barely  opened  and  then  laid  aside 
for  a  more  careful  perusal.  It  was  from  her  son  at 
Cambridge. 

When  she  had  time  to  read  it  carefully,  she  learned 
that  Hugh  Rendall  had  been  president  of  the  Debating 
Club,  that  they  had  had  a  fierce  discussion  on  Home 
Rule;  that  the  Home  Rulers  had  won  hands  down; 
that  he  was  eager  to  go  home,  and  enter  public  life, 
but  that  he  would  not  be  the  bidden  slave  of  any  party, 
but  would  face  the  world  as  an  independent. 

There  was  a  little  boyish  self-consciousness  in  the 
letter  (although  Hugh  was  now  twenty-four  years  old), 
which  made  his  mother  smile.  But  then  it  threw  her 
into  a  reverie,  where  she  dreamed  of  her  boy  in  Parlia- 
ment, making  great  speeches,  doing  surprising  things 
in  general,  and  finally  becoming  master-debater  and 
paramount  Lord  to  all  the  nation.  Who  is  there  that 
cannot  reverence  a  mother's  dreams,  however  wild? 


312  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

After  a  long  reverie,  she  took  up  the  letter  again,  and 
read  that  Hugh  was  coming  home  for  the  Whitsun 
holidays,  that  it  was  almost  certain  Parliament  would 
be  dissolved  in  July,  and  a  General  Election  would  be 
held  in  August.  This  startled  the  mother's  fears.  So 
long  as  her  boy's  possible  advancement  was  a  thing 
of  the  future,  it  was  pleasant  to  picture  it  to  the 
imagination.  But  the  prospect  of  its  being  an  im- 
mediate reality  filled  her  with  a  kind  of  dismay. 

Her  daughter  Genevieve  came  in.  She  was  a  tall, 
handsome  girl,  very  like  her  mother  in  appearance 
and  with  that  prompt  matter-of-fact  manner  that  dis- 
tinguished Mary  Carleton. 

"There  are  two  letters  for  you,  Vevey,"  said  her 
mother.     "I  suppose  about  this  golf  business." 

Vevey  opened  her  letters  with  a  frown  of  suspicion. 

"Just  as  I  thought,"  she  said,  with  a  little  air  of 
contempt.  "Mr.  Halloran  writes  to  say  the  links  are 
quite  unsuitable;  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  get 
a  club  together.  Unless,  he  says,  we  take  in  undesir- 
able persons.  I  wonder  what  are  his  notions  of  'un- 
desirable persons'?" 

"Anybody  under  a  lord,  I  suppose!"  said  her  mother, 
who  had  not  lost  her  old  faculty  of  saying  sarcastic 
things.  "I  believe  he  was  introduced  to  Lord  Kil- 
iatty  some  time  ago!" 

"Yes!  But  it  is  very  annoying.  And  I  suppose 
we  cannot  form  a  tennis-club,  either,  this  year.  What 
is  to  be  done?" 

"But  there's  the  Rector  and  his  two  daughters; 
Mrs.  Smith  and  her  niece;  some  of  the  bankers  from 
the  Kilmorna  — " 

"Ye-es!"  said  Vevey,  doubtfully,  "but  in  all  these 
things  you  need    an    organiser  —  someone,  who  will 


A  STORY  OF  '67  313 

take  trouble;  and  I  depended  so  much  on  Mr. 
Halloran." 

"Well,  don't  quarrel  with  Mr.  Halloran,"  said  her 
mother.  "He  is  a  useful  kind  of  man;  and  we  may 
want  him  soon." 

"Want  him,  mother?  I  should  hope  not,"  said  her 
daughter.  "Of  all  things  in  this  world  that  are  most 
detestable,  'wanting'  people  is  the  worst.  You  place 
yourself  under  obligations;    and  then  — " 

She  looked  through  the  window  in  a  kind  of  despair. 
Life  was  hardly  worth  living. 

Then  a  thought  struck  her. 

"Want  Mr.  Halloran?"  she  said,  turning  round. 
"How  should  we  want  him,  mother?" 

"Hugh  is  coming  home  for  the  Whitsun  holidays." 

"That's  delightful,  although  I  hope  he  won't  make  a 
fool  of  himself  with  that  Miss  Fortescue  again.  They 
certainly  got  themselves  talked  about.  But  Hugh 
coming  home!  That's  a  fresh  idea  about  the  golf 
and  tennis!" 

She  turned  to  the  window  again.  She  was  easily 
abstracted.  Then  she  recollected,  and  gathered  up 
her  train  of  thought. 

"But  what  has  all  that  to  do  with  Mr.  Halloran, 
mother?" 

"Well,  Hugh  has  a  notion  of  public  life  —  in  fact,  of 
entering  Parliament — " 

"Entering  Parliament?"  exclaimed  Vevey.  "He 
might  as  well  think  of  entering  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven!" 

"I  hope  that  may  come,  too,"  said  her  mother, 
gravely.    "  But  why  shouldn't  Hugh  enter  Parliament?  " 

"Why?  Because  he  does  not  belong  to  that  set  at 
all.     They  wouldn't  have  him  at  any  cost." 


314  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"He  is  President  of  the  Cambridge  Debating  Union, 
and  he  is  an  ardent  Home  Ruler.  What  more  is 
wanting?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know!"  said  Vevey.  "But  'Hugh 
Kendall,  M.P.'  It  sounds  well.  Won't  Miss  Fortes- 
cue  set  her  cap  now  in  earnest!" 

"Vevey,  you  are  becoming  most  uncharitable," 
said  her  mother,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance.  "Do 
you  ever  accuse  yourself  of  that,  when  you  go  to 
Confession?" 

"Never!  Why,  it  is  only  legitimate  criticism,"  said 
Vevey.  "If  we  don't  talk  about  one  another,  what 
in  the  world  is  there  to  talk  about?  And  now  —  no 
golf,  no  tennis,  no  —  nothing!  Oh,  dear!  What  a 
tiresome  thing  living  is!" 

"Well,  if  Hugh  goes  on,  you'll  have  something  to  do. 
He  says  the  general  election  will  be  in  August;  and  you 
will  have  to  use  all  your  attractions  to  secure  votes  for 
him." 

"Really,  that's  quite  jolly,"  said  Vevey,  who  saw 
that  life  was  become  attractive  again.  "  Going  around, 
like  a  suffragette,  making  speeches  from  platforms, 
talking  to  grocers'  wives,  admiring  babies  —  yes,  that 
won't  be  bad  for  two  or  three  weeks.  But,  mother, 
where  does  Mr.  Halloran  come  in?  I  had  almost 
forgotten  him." 

"He  probably  would  be  Hugh's  agent  —  conducting- 
agent,  they  call  it,  I  think." 

"Oh,  then,  I  shall  be  civil  to  him,  although  I  think 
he's  a  muff.     And  that  awful  woman,  his  wife  —  oh!" 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  Vevey  exclaimed: 

"Hallo!  There's  Nicker,  dying  for  a  run;  and  so 
am  I." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  315 

A  fox-terrier  had  bounded  out  on  the  lawn;  and, 
spying  his  young  mistress,  had  been  barking,  and 
leaping,  and  pirouetting  even  amongst  the  daffodils 
to  the  dismay  of  Mrs.  Kendall. 

Vevey  raised  the  window  a  little,  stood  on  the  sill, 
and  leaped  down  on  the  lawn;  and  soon,  the  white 
dress  of  the  young  lady  was  a  vision  amongst  the  young 
foliage  of  the  trees,  and  Nicker  was  scampering  before 
her,  trying  frantically  to  do  impossible  gymnastics 
for  the  pleasure  of  his  young  mistress. 


XLIV 

Myles  Cogan  had  an  invitation  from  Father  James 
a  few  weeks  later  to  dine  with  him  on  a  certain  Sunday 
at  five  o'clock.  This  was  one  of  the  delights  of  his 
existence  —  a  Sunday  dinner  at  the  presbytery  at 
Lisvarda;  and  the  subsequent  chat  out  on  the  lawn 
with  his  old  friend. 

Just  at  this  time,  too,  the  latter  end  of  May,  the 
country  was  in  its  gala  dress;  and  Myles,  who,  like 
every  good  Celt,  loved  the  winds  and  the  rains  and 
the  storms  of  Ireland,  so  emblematic  of  her  history, 
had  also  a  soft  corner  for  the  motherland  when  she  put 
on  her  holiday  dress  and  arrayed  herself  for  a  brief 
period  in  her  sunshine  and  flowers.  It  was  a  lovely 
run  —  that  from  Kilmorna  to  Lisvarda;  and  Myles 
was  not  sorry  that  the  little  hills  that  sloped  upwards 
to  the  plateau  where  the  priest's  house  was  built, 
compelled  him  from  time  to  time  to  dismount  from  his 
bicycle,  and  walk  slowly,  thus  giving  him  time  to 
feast  his  eyes  on  all  the  glories  of  a  summer  evening  in 
Ireland.  There  was  one  stretch  of  road  for  two  miles, 
that  was  almost  bewildering  in  its  beauty,  for  he  had 
to  pass  through  an  open  arcade  of  hawthorn-blossoms 
and  crab-apple  blossoms,  which  sprang  from  banks 
literally  covered  with  primroses,  wild  violets  and  hya- 
cinths, whilst  festoons  of  woodbine  hung  from  the 
bushes,  and  the  limes  flung  out  their  fragrance,  and  were 
made  musical  with  the  hum  of  bees. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  317 

As  a  rule,  Father  James  had  no  other  guest.  They 
had  so  much  of  each  other's  confidence,  that  a  third 
person  would  be  out  of  place.  But  this  Sunday,  Myles 
was  surprised,  and  not  too  agreeably,  to  find  a  young 
gentleman  before  him,  and  to  be  introduced  to  him  as 
Mr.  Hugh  Rendall.  He  had  known  there  was  such  a 
person,  of  course;  but  he  had  formed  no  other  idea  of 
him,  but  as  a  young  gentleman  who  had  been  studying 
in  an  English  University,  and  who  probably  would 
follow  in  the  beaten  track  towards  some  position  of 
dignity  and  emolument.  Myles  was  not  conscious  of 
any  hostility  towards  the  young  man.  Only,  he  would 
have  preferred  one  of  his  customary  tete-d-tetes  with 
his  old  friend. 

Hence,  he  was  quite  silent  during  the  greater  part 
of  dinner;  and  only  woke  up  with  some  interest,  when 
the  young  man  said  modestly: 

"Yes!  It  was  that  slum  work  in  London,  that  made 
me  first  realise  that  I  had  a  country." 

"It  was  a  strange  feeling,"  he  said,  "but  when  Wig- 
ham  and  I  had  done  our  piece  of  slumming,  according  to 
Toynbee  rules,  and  I  had  a  bit  of  leisure  to  myself,  I 
used  get  in  amongst  the  Irish  at  Whitechapel  or  at 
the  Dials;  and  the  first  thought  was,  what  brings  those 
people  here?  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  Jew,  the 
Italian,  the  German,  the  Scandinavian,  were  quite  at 
home  there  in  the  heart  of  London;  but  the  sight  of  an 
Irishwoman  cooking  a  steak  at  a  range,  and  a  stalwart 
Paddy  sitting  in  a  spring-bottom  chair,  seemed  to  me 
the  height  of  incongruity." 

"But  why  shouldn't  the  Irish  have  good  comfortable 
chairs  and  a  beef-steak  for  dinner?"  said  Father  James. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Why  shouldn't 
they?     But  I  couldn't  get  over  the  idea,  that  the  whole 


318  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

thing  was  incongruous,  because  I  had  never  seen  an 
Irish  woman  cooking  anything  but  bacon  and  potatoes 
and  cabbage,  or  an  Irishman  smoking  except  on  a 
sugan  chair,  or  the  flagged  seat  near  the  open  hearth. 
And  then  to  see  those  foreigners  come  in  with  their 
queer  dresses  and  accents,  and  to  know  that  instead  of 
his  mountain-cabin,  Paddy  had  but  one  room  in  a  vast 
tenement  house,  without  air,  or  hght,  or  water,  made 
me  always  inclined  to  open  our  acquaintance  by  ask- 
ing:  'What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?'" 

"And  what  used  they  say?"  asked  Father  James. 

"The  old  answer!  'We're  better  off.  I  have  got 
my  two  pounds  a  week;  my  boys  are  earning  thirty 
shillings  each.     Would  we  have  that  in  Ireland?'" 

"Of  course  not,"  I  used  to  say.  "But  you  had  a 
home  to  yourself  on  an  Irish  hillside,  with  the  four 
winds  of  heaven  playing  around,  and  the  sun  dancing  on 
the  floor  of  your  cabin;  and  you  had  plenty  of  pota- 
toes and  cabbage  and  a  bit  of  bacon  sometimes;  and  you 
had  your  rick  of  black  turf  well  saved  from  the  bog, 
with  the  creels  lying  on  it  ready  for  use;  and  you  had 
the  drop  of  potheen  sometimes  and  no  ganger  to  smell 
it;  and  you  had  the  ould  nabors  dropping  in  of  an 
evening  for  a  seanchus;  and  you  had  your  own  priests 
—  but  I  never  went  much  beyond  that,  because  I 
used  to  see  the  old  woman's  tears  dropping  and  hissing 
on  the  pan,  whilst  the  young  chaps  with  their  half- 
English  faces  used  look  crossly  at  me  for  spoiling  their 
dinner." 

During  this  monologue,  Myles  began  to  watch  the 
boy  with  curious  interest.  He  saw  a  handsome  ruddy 
face,  where  the  blood  ran  free  and  pure  and  even; 
a  mass  of  black  curls  were  matted  round  his  head,  except 
above  the  temples,  where  there  appeared  to  be  pre- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  319 

mature  baldness.  His  grey  eyes  were  softened  at  the 
remembrance  of  his  exiled  people,  far  away  from  their 
native  soil  in  that  reeking  London  atmosphere;  and 
Myles  began  to  wonder  where  the  lad  had  imbibed 
such  a  personal  and  wholesome  feeling  towards  his 
motherland. 

"You  seemed  to  have  known  the  ways  of  our  people 
very  well,"  he  said  at  length.  "It  is  not  usual  for  our 
gentry  to  know  so  much  about  the  interior  of  an  Irish 
cabin." 

"I  used  to  live  half  my  time  amongst  the  people  in 
Donegal,"  Hugh  Kendall  said,  "when  father  was 
County  Inspector  there.  You  see  you  go  out  on  these 
lonely  mountains  —  and  they  are  lonely  —  why,  this 
place  is  a  kind  of  Riviera  compared  with  Donegal  — 
and  you  don't  know  when  you  may  return.  So  I  used 
to  say  to  mother:  'If  I  am  not  back,  don't  wait  dinner 
for  me.  I'll  take  pot-luck  wherever  I  can  get  it'; 
and  I  used.  The  most  tremendous  meal  I  ever  ate 
was  off  potatoes  and  salt  in  a  cabin  in  the  mountains. 
But  the  love  of  the  poor  people;  the  way  the  girls 
laughed  at  me,  when  they  saw  me  stowing  away  the 
lumpers,  was  worth  an  alderman's  dinner.  Ah  me! 
How  gladly  would  I  go  back  amongst  them  again. 
This  place  stifles  me.  I  want  to  throw  out  my  arms 
and  drink  in  the  air  of  the  Donegal  hills." 

"And  do  you  think,  Mr.  Kendall,"  said  Myles,  softly, 
"that  you  ever  induced  any  of  these  exiles  to  return 
home?" 

"No!"  said  the  boy,  and  his  face  fell.  "And  it 
would  be  of  no  use.  Once  an  exile,  an  exile  for  ever. 
The  people  that  go  are  never  the  same  again.  Some 
change  takes  place  —  I  don't  know  what  it  is  —  but 
they  are  never  the  same.     Some  do  come  back,  when 


320  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

the  times  are  hard  in  Babylon;  but  they  cannot  settle 
down.  The  glamour  of  London  follows  them,  —  the 
streets,  the  lights,  the  shops,  the  coffee-stalls,  the  tripe- 
shop,  and  —  the  wild  mad  rush  of  millions  of  people! 
You  see,  so  long  as  they  stay  at  home,  the  very  silence 
and  solitude  of  the  hills  has  a  charm  for  them.  But 
let  them  once  hear  the  roar  of  London,  and  it  will  be 
evermore  in  their  ears." 

"That  is  the  reason,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "why 
I  think  our  people  should  never  leave  their  country. 
They  are  never  the  same  again." 

"But  then,"  said  Myles,  "how  have  you  escaped, 
Mr.  Kendall?  Were  not  you  in  the  vortex  of  London 
life,  as  well  as  they?" 

"Yes!  But  as  a  traveller,  as  a  spectator,"  said  Hugh 
Kendall.  "No  more.  They  lived  there.  I  merely 
walked  through." 

"Let  us  come  out,"  said  Father  James,  "and  enjoy 
the  evening  outside.  And  you  can  retort  on  Mr.  Cogan, 
for  he  lived  ten  long  years  in  England,  and  you  see  how 
he  is  spoiled  for  evermore." 

"I  didn't  know,"  the  young  man  said,  putting  aside 
his  napkin,  and  looking  curiously  at  Myles.  "In 
what  part  of  England  did  you  live,  Mr.  Cogan?" 

"Father  James  shouldn't  have  alluded  to  it,"  said 
Myles,  taking  out  and  filling  his  pipe.  "'Let  the  dead 
past  bury  the  dead.'     I  was  in  gaol." 

The  young  man  started  back,  and  looked  frightfully 
embarrassed.  Father  James  had  gone  into  the  house 
to  order  "materials."  There  was  a  painful  silence 
between  the  two  men.  Myles  smoked  his  briarwood 
pipe  calmly  enough;  but  Hugh  Kendall  smoked  ciga- 
rette after  cigarette  violently,  flinging  them  away  when 
they  were  half  consumed.     At  last,  and  it  seemed  an 


A  STORY  OF  '67  321 

interminable  time  to  the  younger  man,  the  priest  came 
out;  a  table  was  laid,  and  hot  water  and  sugar,  and 
whiskey  and  coffee  were  produced. 

After  an  interval,  Myles  said: 

"Mr,  Rendall  was  curious  to  know  where  I  spent 
my  ten  years  in  England;  and  I  have  told  him  that 
I  was  in  gaol." 

"Aye,  so  you  were,"  said  the  priest,  "and  you're  not 
likely  to  forget  it.  But  it  had  not  the  effect  of  London 
life  on  you.  You  came  back  a  more  egregious  Irish- 
man than  ever." 

Still  puzzled  and  silent,  Hugh  Rendall  poured  out 
some  coffee.  He  didn't  know  what  to  think.  He  felt 
that  it  was  a  delicate  subject.  And  he  also  felt  a  little 
humiliation,  and  resentment  at  being  asked  to  dine  with 
a  felon.  He  was  pondering  over  some  excuse  to  get 
away,  when  Father  James  said: 

"It  is  a  coincidence  that  it  was  your  father,  Mr. 
Rendall,  that  arrested  Mr.  Cogan." 

This  made  the  matter  more  embarrassing,  and 
Rendall  said- 

"Indeed?" 

"And,  stranger  still,  it  was  your  good  mother  who 
suggested  the  arrest." 

The  young  man  now  became  not  only  embarrassed, 
but  angry.  Was  this  an  ugly  plot  to  throw  in  his  face 
some  personal  disagreement  of  long  ago?  He  turned 
his  face  away. 

"But  it  was  a  friendly  act,"  continued  the  priest. 
"Mr.  Cogan  was  arrested  at  your  mother's  suggestion 
to  save  him  from  taking  part  in  the  Fenian  rising." 

"Then  Mr.  Cogan  was  a  Fenian?"  said  the  young 
man,  who  was  suddenly  changed  from  a  sceptic  to  an 
admirer. 


322  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

''Yes!  He  was  Head  Centre  at  Kilmorna.  He  was 
with  James  Halpin,  when  he  was  killed  at  Slieve-Ruadh. 
He  was  arrested,  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  drawn  and 
quartered;  and  spent  ten  of  the  best  years  of  his  life 
in  Dartmoor." 

It  was  Hugh  Kendall's  turn  now  to  be  heartily- 
ashamed  of  himself.  Two  minutes  ago,  he  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  being  in  the  company  of  a  convicted 
felon;  now,  he  felt  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  hero. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  do.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
stand  up  and  make  a  humble  confession  of  the  unworthy 
suspicions  he  had  harboured.  Then,  he  hated  scenes; 
and  he  felt  that  neither  the  priest  nor  Myles  would 
relish  a  scene.     He  contented  himself  by  saying  simply: 

"I  heard  Father  and  Mother  discussing  that  troubled 
period  a  few  times.  Father  was  bitter  enough  against 
the  Fenians.  Mother  stood  up  for  them.  From  her 
I  learned  to  envy  and  admire  them.  But  I  never 
heard  Mr.  Cogan's  name  mentioned  as  a  rebel  till 
now.     What  a  ten  years  to  look  back  upon!" 

Little  the  boy  understood  what  those  ten  years  meant. 

"Strange,"  he  said,  "you  never  hear  of  anyone 
going  to  gaol  now  —  I  mean  for  Ireland!" 

"'Tis  gone  out  of  fashion,"  said  the  priest.  "It 
does  not  pay.  It  is  not  up-to-date.  And  our  rulers 
are  at  last  wise  enough  to  understand,  that  when  the 
gaols  are  empty,  and  the  scaffold  taken  down  and  sold 
for  firewood,  Ireland  is  contented  and  subdued." 

"You  think  patriotism  is  dead?"  said  the  young 
man,  eagerly. 

"Dead  as  Julius  Caesar!"  said  the  priest.  "We 
are  all  now  citizens  of  the  world.  Ireland  is  only  a 
little  piece  of  rock  and  wood  thrown  by  chance  into  the 
Atlantic  Ocean;   and  every  man's  duty  is,  on  the  prin- 


A  STORY  OF   '67  323 

ciple  of  natural  selection,  to  get  on  to  the  goal,  and 
push  the  feeble  against  the  wall." 

"And  the  National  Anthem,"  said  Myles,  "is  a 
song  you  must  have  heard  in  the  London  slums  — 
'Yip-i-addy-i-aye!'  " 

" I  can't  believe  it;  I  can't  believe  it! "  said  the  young 
man,  passionately.  "You  are  joking,  Father  James; 
and  Mr.  Cogan  is  embittered.  But  it  is  not  true;  it 
is  not  true  that  the  nation  has  apostatised." 

"A  nation  has  apostatised,"  said  Father  James, 
gravely,  "when  it  surrenders  its  liberties;  when  it  goes 
begging,  hat  in  hand,  for  favours;  when  it  says  to  the 
man  who  spares  it  the  trouble  of  thinking,  'Thou  art 
our  Master;  and  we  shall  have  no  gods  but  thee!'" 

"Has  it  come  to  that?"  said  the  boy,  passionately. 
"Is  there  no  one  to  raise  his  voice  and  call  back  the 
nation  to  a  sense  of  self-respect?" 

"That  would  mean  martyrdom,"  said  Father  James. 

"And,"  added  Myles,  "no  one  now  sings: 

'  If  Death  should  come,  that  martyrdom 
Were  sweet  endured  for  you, 

Dear  Land! 
Were  sweet  endured  for  you.'  " 

He  little  knew  how  prophetic  were  his  words! 


XLV 

"You  had  a  pleasant  evening?"  said  Mrs.  Randall 
to  her  son  at  tea  that  night. 

"Yes!     Quite  jolly.     Father  James  is  a  brick." 

"You  were  alone?" 

"No!  There  was  a  gentleman  there  of  whom  you, 
mother,  must  have  heard;  though  you  never  mentioned 
his  name,  —  Mr.  Cogan." 

"Yes!"  said  his  mother,  whilst  a  faint  blush  seemed 
to  run  up  her  forehead,  and  be  lost  in  her  white  hair. 
"He  was  a  Fenian  leader,  and  spent  some  years  in 
gaol." 

"So  he  told  me;  and  by  Jove,  I  was  never  so  near 
making  an  ass  of  myself  before." 

"Oh,  yes,  Hugh!"  said  his  good  sister.  "You  for- 
get that  you  proposed  to  Miss  Fortescue!" 

"Now,  now,  Vevey,"  said  her  mother.  "That's 
unkind.  But  what  happened?"  she  saidi  turning  to 
her  son. 

"Why,  we  were  talking  about  England  and  how  a 
residence  there  alienates  the  Irish  from  their  native 
land.  Then  I  was  thrown  on  my  own  defence;  and  then 
Father  James  blurts  out,  'And  Mr.  Cogan  spent  ten 
years  in  England;  and  he  came  home  a  better  Irish- 
man than  ever.'  I  was  stupid  enough  to  ask  Mr.  Cogan 
when  we  were  together,  'Where  he  spent  those  ten 
years?'  He  said  simply,  'In  gaol!'  Bj^  Jove,  I  was 
struck  dumb.  I  could  not  imagine  a  fellow  ten  years 
in  gaol,  except  for  forgery,  or  embezzlement,  or  some- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  325 

thing  worse;  and  I  felt  very  ill  at  ease  at  the  notion  of 
having  dined  cheek  by  jowl  with  a  common  felon  — " 

"You  said  nothing?  I  hope,"  said  his  mother, 
anxiously. 

"  Fortunatel}'^,  no;  but  I  was  about  to  get  away  ab- 
ruptly, which  would  be  as  bad,  when  it  came  out  that 
Mr.  Cogan  was  a  Fenian;  and  had  borne  a  good  deal 
for  his  country." 

"A  good  deal?"  said  his  mother,  meaningly. 

"Yes!  I  presume  it  wasn't  all  cakes  and  ale  there!" 
said  Hugh. 

"No!"  said  his  mother.  "It  was  so  bad  that  the 
country  has  managed  to  forget  it.  Somehow,  Irish- 
men have  a  wonderful  faculty  of  bearing  easily  the 
trials  and  martyrdoms  of  their  patriots." 

"But  I  think  Father  James  said  you  were  somehow 
mixed  up  in  the  matter,"  said  her  son.  "You  had 
him  arrested?" 

"Yes!  Before  the  rising.  His  sister,  who  is  now  a 
nun,  —  she  was  an  old  school-companion  —  came  to 
me  to  save  him.  I  could  think  of  nothing  that  would 
save  him,  except  to  have  him  locked  up;  and  your 
father  was  obliging  enough  to  do  it  for  me." 

"But  how  then  was  he  at  the  shooting  with  the  other 
poor  fellow,  that  was  killed?" 

"An  American  officer  rode  up,  and  broke  the  prison- 
gate,  or  the  gaoler's  head,  I  don't  know  which  —  and 
they  rode  on  to  the  field  of  battle.  There  they  found 
Halpin  firing  away  at  the  English  troops  across  the 
river.  The  officer  was  ordered  away;  Halpin,  who 
was  in  love  with  Mr.  Cogan's  sister,  Agnes,  was  shot 
through  the  lung;  Mr.  Cogan  was  arrested  and  tried 
and  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  That  was  commuted  to 
imprisonment  for  life.     You  know  the  rest." 


326  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"But,  mother  dear,"  said  Hugh,  "when  you  knew 
Mr.  Cogan  so  well  all  that  time,  you  never  mentioned 
his  name;  and  he  has  never  called  here.     Has  he?" 

"No!"  said  his  mother,  with  some  show  of  embar- 
rassment, "Mr.  Cogan  and  I  are  not  acquainted.  I 
knew  his  sister  well.     I  have  never  spoken  to  himself." 

A  statement  which  made  her  children  stare. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I  have  known  him,"  said  the  boy, 
with  enthusiasm.  "It  is  something  to  touch  the  hand 
of  a  man  who  has  suffered  for  Ireland.  You  don't 
object,  mother,  do  you?" 

"No!"  she  said  hesitatingly.  "We  are  in  different 
grades  in  life;  and,  I  dare  say,  Mr.  Cogan  would  not 
be  complimented  if  we  sought  his  acquaintance.  But 
it  is  fortunate  for  you  that  you  met  him.  He  is  a  good 
man!" 

"Somehow,  the  people  say,  he  is  very  stiff  and  stand 
offish,"  said  Vevey.  "I'll  take  some  more  tea,  mother, 
please!  and  the  people,  down  there  at  Kilmorna  don't 
like  him." 

"I  suppose  he  feels  he's  somewhat  above  them," 
said  her  mother.  "You  may  be  sure  when  he's  Father 
James'  friend,  he  must  be  a  little  above  the  multitude." 

"They  both  seemed  to  think,"  said  Hugh,  "that 
there's  not  much  patriotism  left  in  Ireland,  or,  indeed, 
anywhere.  The  old  fiery  spirit  has  gone;  and  the 
people  have  become  —  well,  calculating  machines. 
They  weren't  so  in  Donegal,  do  you  remember?  Why, 
the  people  there  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  us." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  his  mother.  "But  they  weren't 
civilised,  you  know.  They  never  saw  a  newspaper, 
nor  a  train,  nor  an  electric  tram;  and  so  they  clung  to 
old  delusions  —  religion  and  patriotism  and  the  like. 
We  have  changed  all  that." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  327 

"Well,  it  is  worth  while  trjdng  to  bring  back  the  old 
spirit,"  said  Hugh.  "I  wonder  would  Mr.  Cogan  lend 
us  a  hand?" 

"Wait  till  we  women  get  votes,"  said  the  good  sister. 
"Then,  public  life  will  be  purified;  and  then,  Ellen 
Fortescue  and  I  will  stump  the  country  for  you." 

"For  you?"  said  her  mother.  "Why  not  go  into 
Parliament  yourselves?" 

"I  cannot  wait  for  that,"  said  Hugh,  taking  the 
matter  solemnly.     "It  is  now  or  never  with  me." 

"Hugh,"  said  his  sister,  gravely,  "are  you  quite 
serious  in  thinking  of  contesting  this  division?" 

"Quite,"  he  said.     "Why  not?" 

"Do  3'ou  know  what  'twill  cost  mother?" 

"Half  your  fortune!"  he  said. 

"There  now,  you  are  going  to  quarrel  again,"  said 
Mrs.  Kendall,  rising  from  the  table.  "But  do  nothing, 
Hugh,  without  consulting  Father  James.  He  knows 
this  place  so  much  better  than  we." 

A  few  days  later,  Father  James  called  at  Millbank. 

"How  did  you  like  that  young  chap,  Kendall?"  he 
said  brusquely  to  Myles. 

"  Pretty  well.  There's  something  genuine  about  him, 
although  he  was  going  to  run  home  when  he  heard  I 
had  been  a  convict." 

"That's  just  what  makes  me  think  well  of  him," 
said  the  priest.  "The  moment  he  heard  you  were  a 
'felon'  for  Ireland,  you  saw  how  he  changed.  That's 
not  usual  with  his  class,  nor,  indeed,  with  any  class  in 
these  days." 

"Yes!  It  is  all  ancient  history  now,"  said  Myles, 
in  a  melancholy  tone.  "But  what  a  revolution!  and 
how  sudden  it  has  come  on.     Everything  that  was 


328  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

held  in  abhorrence  in  '67  is  held  in  honour  now.  Every- 
thing that  was  honoured  then,  is  dishonoured  now. 
No  nation  made  such  a  somersault  ever  before!" 

"And  no  hope  of  going  back?" 

"Absolutely  none.  You  know  the  Catechism  says 
there  is  no  redemption  for  apostates." 

"Do  you  know,  Myles,"  said  Father  James,  after  a 
pause,  "I  had  rather  listen  to  young  Kendall  than  to 
you?  Of  course  it  is  youth  that  speaks  through  him, 
and  hope.  He  sees  hope  everywhere.  He  thinks  if 
a  few  strong  men  could  be  got  together,  to  raise  the 
standard  of  independence,  they  could  undo  the  mis- 
chief of  the  last  thirty  years  — " 

"They  could  get  their  heads  well  broken,"  said 
Myles.  "The  case  is  hopeless  —  utterly  hopeless,  I 
tell  you!" 

"Nevertheless,  Kendall  will  go  on — " 

"Where?"  said  Myles,  in  amazement. 

"Here!  He'll  contest  this  division  at  the  next 
general  election  as  an  'Independent.'" 

"I  hope  you  didn't  encourage  that,  Father  James?" 
said  Myles,  seriously. 

"I  didn't  oppose  it,"  said  the  priest.  "I  put  before 
him  all  the  dangers,  all  the  difficulties,  and  the  proba- 
ble, nay  certain,  loss  of  much  money;  but  he  has  all 
the  magnificent  elan  of  youth  on  his  side,  and  there's 
no  stopping  him." 

"He  won't  get  even  one  to  nominate  him,"  said 
Myles. 

"Oh,  he  will.  That's  all  right.  And  he  says,  if 
you  would  only  stand  by  his  side,  he'd  beat  any 
opponent." 

"I  hope  you  didn't  encourage  that  idea,"  said  Myles, 
with  great  gravity.     '''You  know  that  no  power  on 


A  STORY  OF  '67  329 

earth  could  make  me  go  down  into  such  a  Donnybrook 
fair." 

"I  suppose  'tis  the  more  prudent  course,"  said 
Father  James,  with  unconscious  irony.  "But  what 
would  Halpin  say?" 

This  appeal  to  the  memory  of  his  old  comrade 
seemed  to  stagger  the  resolution  which  Myles  had 
formed.  Yes!  It  was  quite  true  that  is  not  the 
way  Halpin  would  have  acted. 

"You  remember  his  great  principle,"  said  the  priest; 
"it  was  you  yourself  often  mentioned  it  to  me  —  that 
he  died  to  lift  up  the  people?  It  was  not  for  Irish 
independence  he  gave  his  life  —  that,  he  knew,  was  an 
impossible  dream;  it  was  not  for  Home  Rule  even  — 
that  was  not  spoken  of  in  his  time.  It  was  to  purify 
Irish  life;  and  to  keep  the  Irish  from  running  after 
idols,  like  the  Israelites  of  old." 

"Yes!"  said  Myles,  bitterly,  "and  how  far  did  he 
succeed?" 

"No  matter!"  said  the  priest.  "As  old  Longinus 
used  to  say,  'To  fail  in  great  attempts  is  yet  a  noble 
failure!'     I  like  the  heroes  of  lost  causes!" 

"It  seems  to  be  quixotic,  impossible,  absurd.  Per- 
haps it  is  old  age  that  is  creeping  down  on  my  facul- 
ties. I  was  always  convinced  that  if  we  had  three 
hundred  Spartans  here  in  Ireland  in  the  days  of  Parnell, 
or  even  one  independent  organ  in  the  Press,  that  awful 
debacle  would  never  have  taken  place." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Father  James,  dubiously. 
"The  sentiment  of  our  people  is  always  stronger  than 
their  reason.  Do  you  know  my  own  blood  boiled 
within  me,  when  I  heard  that  despairing  cry  of  his: 

'Don't  throw  me  to  the  English  wolves!'" 


330  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"  Quite  so.  I  can  understand.  I  will  go  further  and 
say  that  his  last  years  were  some  of  the  most  tragic  in 
all  human  history;  and  their  events  can  never  be  read 
by  Irishmen  without  shame.  All  the  greater  reason 
why  weaklings  like  myself  should  shirk  the  contest." 

"Yet,  if  Halpin  were  alive,  he'd  have  thrown  him- 
self into  the  breach,"  said  the  priest. 

"Possibly,"  said  Myles,  "In  fact,  he  used  to  say: 
'It  was  all  the  same,  whether  you  fall  by  an  English 
bullet,  or  at  the  hands  of  an  assassin.'  Poor  fellow,  I 
wish  he  were  alive  —  although  I  don't.  The  affairs 
of  the  present  day  would  kill  him." 

"His  mantle  has  fallen  upon  you!"  said  the  priest. 

"No!  No!"  said  Myles.  "I  am  not  worthy.  He 
was  a  great  spirit.  By  the  way,  I'm  running  down  to 
Melleray  tomorrow  for  a  day  or  two.  Any  message 
to  the  Fathers?  I  haven't  been  there  for  five  years. 
I  suppose  they'll  turn  me  away!" 


XLVI 

Since  his  last  visit  to  the  Cistercian  Abbey  at  Mount 
Melleray  the  imagination  of  Myles  Cogan  had  been 
haunted  by  a  vision,  which  was  commonplace  enough 
in  itself,  but  which,  in  some  curious  fashion,  had 
fastened  on  his  memory  as  a  picture  that  could  not  be 
covered  over  by  the  ordinary  events  of  life. 

Just  after  supper,  and  when  the  last  bells  were  ring- 
ing for  Compline,  he  had  formed  one  of  the  group  of 
men  who  passed  from  the  sunshine  of  the  hall  into  the 
sudden  gloom  of  the  cloister  on  their  way  to  the  Church. 
The  contrast  between  the  very  brilliant  light  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  which  flooded  the  hall  and  the  dim  twilight 
of  the  corridor,  was  startling  enough;  but  what  caught 
Myles'  imagination  was  the  figure  of  a  monk  in  choir 
dress  standing,  with  his  back  turned  towards  the 
visitors,  still  and  silent,  and  looking  out  into  the  quad- 
rangle, where  a  few  shrubs  were  almost  hidden  in  the 
tall  grass.  He  was  apparently  of  middle  age.  His 
greyish  hair  was  cut  close;  he  wore  a  light  fair  beard, 
and  a  moustache  fringed  his  lips.  His  cheeks  were 
sunken  and  pale;  and  there  was  a  hectic  flush  on  the 
cheek  bones.  His  hands  were  folded  in  his  scapular, 
and  he  was  motionless  as  a  statue.  He  never  looked 
at  the  group  of  men  that  thronged  the  cloister;  but 
when  the  last  had  turned  the  corner  that  led  to  the 
church,  he  slowly  followed.  The  pale,  ascetic  face 
and  the  flush  were  not  signs  of  delicacy,  Myles  thought, 
so  much  as  of  mortification  and  inward  suffering. 


332  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Such  was  the  picture  that  was  ever  before  the  fancy 
of  Myles  these  five  years,  and  he  was  not  startled  nor 
alarmed,  but  somewhat  faintly  impressed  as  by  a  kind 
of  superstitious  feeling,  when  this  evening  just  at  the 
close  of  May,  and  the  day  after  his  interview  with 
Father  James,  the  very  same  experience  occurred. 
There  was  the  brilliant  sunshine  flooding  the  hall; 
there  was  a  group  of  men,  different  of  course  from  those 
of  five  years  ago;  there  was  the  same,  dim,  green 
twilight  in  the  cloister;  and  there  was  the  selfsame 
monk  in  exactly  the  same  attitude  as  five  years  ago. 
This  time,  Myles  stared  at  him;  but  he  could  see  no 
change.  The  face  seemed  a  little  thinner.  That  was 
all.  Myles,  though  shy  enough  in  strange  places, 
watched  him  narrowly,  as  he  emerged  from  the  chapter- 
room.  He  noticed  that  he  was  not  far  from  the 
Abbot.  Otherwise,  he  appeared,  made  his  profound 
bow,  and  passed  to  his  stall  like  the  rest,  never  raising 
his  eyes. 

The  following  day,  the  genial  lay  brother,  who  was 
in  attendance  on  the  guests,  said  to  Myles: 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  going  to  Confession?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Myles. 

"Well,  which  of  them  will  you  have?" 

"I  think  it  was  Father  Alphonsus  I  went  to  Con- 
fession to  the  last  time,"  said  Myles. 

"Ah!  the  poor  man  died  soon  after,"  said  the  brother. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  insinuate,"  said  Myles, 
"that  it  was  my  Confession  killed  him?" 

Whereupon,  the  brother  had  a  fit  of  laughter  that 
nearly  extinguished  him.  When  he  had  wiped  the 
tears  from  his  eyes,  he  said : 

"No,  no!  The  poor  man  died  of  a  long,  lingering 
sickness.     Ah,  he  was  a  saint." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  333 

"Well,  but  now,"  said  Myles,  "who  are  the  confes- 
sors for  poor  lay  sinners  now?" 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  brother.  "There's  Father 
Aidan,  and  Father  Polycarp,  and  Father  Ciaran,  and 
Father  Hilary." 

"They  are  all  nice  and  easy  with  poor  sinners?" 
said  Myles. 

"Wisha,  faith  they  are,"  said  the  brother.  "Some 
like  Father  Hilary,  and  some  Father  Polycarp,  because, 
they  say,  you  needn't  confess  to  him  at  all.  He  knows 
all  about  you  already." 

"That's  convenient!"  said  Myles.  "But  who  is 
the  Father  who  stands  in  the  cloister  just  outside  the 
big  door?  He's  always  there  at  Compline,  and  he's 
always  looking  out  on  the  quadrangle." 

"Oh!  That's  Father  Cyril,"  said  the  brother. 
"He's  home  from  Rome  for  some  years,  where  he  was 
Consultor  to  the  General.     He's  a  great  theologian." 

"I  see.  But  why  does  he  be  always  there?  He  was 
there  five  years  ago,  too,  when  I  was  here  before,  and 
looking  out  at  the  quadrangle  just  in  the  same  way." 

"Ask  me  something  easy,"  said  the  brother.  "Some 
say  he  sees  a  vision  there  every  night;  some  say  he's 
watching  his  grave,  as  if  he  won't  have  time  enough  to 
do  that  when  he's  dead." 

"I  wonder  would  he  hear  my  Confession?"  said 
Myles.     The  mystery  of  the  man  enthralled  him. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  brother.  "But,  as  he  is  not 
one  of  the  four,  he  must  ask  the  Abbot.  What  time 
would  you  like?" 

"Say  ten  o'clock  tomorrow,"  said  Myles.  "There's 
nothing  —  no  service  going  on  then?" 

"No!  All  right!  He'll  be  at  your  cell  door  at  ten," 
said  the  monk. 


334  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

And  at  ten  o'clock  next  morning  a  slight  tap  was 
heard  at  Myles'  door;  and  his  monk  entered.  Myles 
was  kneeling  at  the  little  round  table,  a  crucifix  before 
him,  and  a  little  pile  of  devotional  books  under  his 
hands.  He  was  facing  the  window  which  opened  out 
into  the  lawn.  The  monk,  without  a  word,  and  with- 
out looking  at  his  penitent,  took  a  chair,  and  also  faced 
the  window,  Myles  kneeling  behind  his  right  shoulder. 

Not  a  word  did  the  confessor  say,  whilst  his  penitent 
made  a  review  of  his  life  for  the  past  five  years. 

Then,  without  turning  his  head,  he  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

"You  are  quite  satisfied  now  with  your  confession, 
just  the  same  as  if  you  were  on  your  death  bed?" 

The  words  struck  Myles  as  somewhat  ominous;  but 
he  simply  said,  "Yes!" 

Then,  without  another  word,  his  Confessor  pro- 
nounced the  form  of  Absolution,  after  ordering  some 
slight  penance;  and,  without  another  word,  the  monk 
arose. 

"If  I  may  delay  you  a  few  moments,"  said  Myles, 
still  on  his  knees,  "there  are  one  or  two  things,  which 
interest  me,  and  about  which  I  should  like  to  have  an 
unbiassed  opinion." 

"They  have  no  reference  to  your  confession?"  said 
the  monk. 

"No!     They  are  quite  extraneous." 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  obtain  further  permission  to 
speak  to  you,"  said  the  monk.  "Can  you  meet  me 
on  the  Upper  Walk  in  the  garden  at  —  what  is  the 
dinner-hour?" 

"Two  o'clock!"  said  Myles. 

"Very  good.  Shall  we  say  one  o'clock,  then?  You 
are  leaving,  I  understand,  tonight?" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  335 

"Yes!  One  o'clock  will  suit  me  admirably";  and 
the  monk  passed  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

Myles  was  somewhat  displeased.  There  was  a 
brusqueness,  a  coldness,  a  want  of  human  sympathy 
in  the  monk's  manner,  which  repelled  him.  But, 
he  had  made  his  choice;  and  the  matter  could  not  be 
reopened. 

Precisely  at  one  o'clock  he  was  standing  on  the  long 
walk  at  the  northern  side  of  the  garden,  watching  with 
some  curiosity  some  of  the  Fathers,  who,  with  habits 
carefully  tucked  up,  were  weeding  and  hoeing  in  the 
garden  in  absolute  silence.  There  was  a  hot  sun  beat- 
ing down;  but  an  occasional  breeze  from  the  south 
stirred  the  fringes  of  the  pine-trees  that  projected  over 
the  garden  wall. 

He  had  not  a  moment  to  wait.  His  monk  came 
at  a  brisk  pace  out  from  the  lawn  and  shrubbery;  and, 
coming  up  to  where  Myles  stood,  he  placed  himself 
at  his  side,  commenced  a  smart  walk,  put  his  hands  in 
his  leathern  belt,  and  said  shortly: 

"Well?" 

Myles  was  dreadfully  embarrassed,  but  he  managed 
to  stammer  out: 

"  I  was  a  Fenian  in  '67;  I  put  in  ten  years  in  Dartmoor 
Prison.  I  am  as  deeply  interested  in  the  country  now 
as  then,  more  deeply,  more  passionately  than  ever. 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  are  the  people  hopelessly 
changed?  Under  the  new  materialism,  is  there  hope 
they  will  keep  the  old  characteristics  of  their  race?" 

The  monk  slowed  down  in  his  walk,  his  eyes  still 
fixed  on  the  ground. 

"I  have  been  away  from  Ireland,"  he  said,  "many 
years.  I  have  seen  but  little  of  it  since  I  returned. 
How  have  the  people  changed?" 


336  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Every  way,"  said  Myles.  The  monk's  indifference 
seemed  to  exasperate  him.  "The  old  spirit  is  gone  — 
the  old,  free,  open-hearted  spirit  that  made  the  people 
so  lovable  is  gone;  and,  in  its  place  has  come  in  a 
hard,  grinding,  material  spirit.  It  is  best  described 
by  the  new  gospel :  Every  man  for  himself,  and  God  for 
us  all!" 

"But  perhaps  that  old  spirit  had  its  faults,  too," 
said  the  monk.  "Were  not  the  people  too  generous, 
too  free-hearted,  too  extravagant?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  said  Myles,  passionately.  "The 
spirit  of  our  race  —  the  spirit  of  our  religion  was  sacri- 
fice —  the  giving  up  something  for  our  neighbour,  our 
country,  our  God.  Now,  'tis  self,  self,  self,  eating  into 
and  corroding  everything." 

"Yes!  that  is  bad,"  said  the  monk,  yet  without  much 
interest  or  emotion.     "  But  is  it  a  national  misfortune?  " 

"Undoubtedly!"  said  Myles.  "It  is  as  a  national 
misfortune  I  deplore  it.  I  am  not  responsible  for  the 
souls  of  the  people.  Let  them  look  to  it  who  are!  But 
I  have  always  believed,  I  might  have  been  wrong,  that 
we  are  a  race  apart;  that  so  surely  as  Jehovah  of  old 
selected  the  Jews  as  his  people  —  the  chosen  nation  — 
so  we,  by  God's  design  or  destiny,  stand  aloof  from 
the  nations  around  us.  Their  ways  are  not  our  ways; 
their  God  is  not  our  God.  But  we  are  forgetting  our- 
selves, just  as  the  Israelites  forgot  themselves  under 
the  thunders  and  lightnings  of  Sinai.  We  are  going 
after  strange  gods.  The  Philistines  are  upon  us, 
not  to  fight  us,  would  to  God  it  were  so!  but  to  show  us 
their  reeking  abominations." 

It  was  the  monk's  turn  now  to  be  surprised.  He 
stopped  in  his  walk,  and,  turning  around,  he  looked 
Myles  steadily  in  the  face. 


A  STORY  OF  '67  337 

"Are  you  exaggerating,  Mr.  Cogan?"  he  said. 
"  When  men  speak  rhetorically,  I  always  distrust  them." 

Myles  grew  red  under  the  reproach;    but  he  rallied. 

"You  wish  me  to  speak  plainer.  Father?"  he  said. 
"I  will.  I  say,  the  commercial  immorality  that  we 
supposed  belonged  to  clever  Yankees  or  perfidious 
Englishmen  is  universal  in  Ireland  today;  I  say  the 
natural  affections  are  extinguished.  Every  will  is 
now  contested;  and  the  dead,  with  all  their  sins  upon 
them,  are  dragged  from  their  graves  to  show  how  legally 
incapable  they  were.  Instead  of  the  old  grave  dignity 
and  seriousness  of  the  dear  old  people,  I  see  nothing 
but  vulgarity  everywhere.  As  to  patriotism  in  the  old 
sense,  —  the  love  of  Ireland,  because  she  is  Ireland, 
and  our  motherland,  —  that  is  as  dead  as  Julius  Csesar. 
The  fact  is,  to  use  a  slang  word  that  has  been  flung 
at  me  lately,  we  are  up-to-date  —  that  is,  we  have  gone 
after  strange  gods!" 

The  monk  walked  silently  on,  but  more  slowly  now. 
Myles  was  excited  and  emotional. 

At  last,  at  a  turn  in  the  walk,  the  former  said : 

"The  whole  thing  is  novel  to  me.  No  one  has  ever 
spoken  thus  before.  Perhaps  the  other  Fathers  may 
have  heard  these  things;  but  I  am,  just  what  you  say 
Ireland  ought  to  be,  aloof  and  apart!  It  may  not  be 
well.     We  belong  to  this  world  as  well  as  to  the  next!" 

"  Ha!  That's  just  what  I  want  to  know,"  said  Myles, 
anxiously.  "It  is  here  the  personal  question  touches 
me.  If  all  I  say  is  true,  and  of  course  I  don't  say  I 
am  infallible  —  am  I  justified  in  keeping  aloof  from 
public  life;  or  am  I  bound  to  go  down  at  any  cost  to 
my  feelings,  and  help  to  purify  that  public  life?" 

"Well,"  said  the  monk,  smiling,  "we  must  establish 
our  premises  first.     You  heard  of  Don  Quixote?" 


338  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"Yes!"  said  Myles.  "That's  just  it.  I  don't  want 
to  be  tilting  at  windmills." 

"Then  you  must  be  careful,  my  dear  Mr.  Cogan," 
said  the  monk,  gently,  "not  to  generalise  too  much. 
Probably,  you  have  certain  ideals  before  your  mind  — 
do  you  read  much?" 

"Yes!     Of  recent  years,  I  have  read  a  great  deal." 

"And  great  books?" 

"Yes!     The  world's  greatest." 

"And  you  haven't  mixed  much  amongst  men?" 

"No!     I  avoid  them  as  much  as  I  can,"  said  Myles. 

"Ah!  There  is  the  seat  of  the  malady,"  said  the 
monk. 

"But,"  said  Myles,  obstinately,  "facts  are  facts, 
Father.  I  tell  you  the  country  is  turned  topsy-turvy. 
What  was  right  thirty  years  ago  is  wrong  today;  and 
public  life  is  wholly  corrupted.  Then,  all  —  everyone," 
Myles  flung  out  his  arms  —  "is  preaching  materialism. 
The  idea  of  Ireland  as  a  great  missionary  country  is 
scoffed  at;  the  idea  of  Ireland  as  a  centre  of  learning 
and  sanctity,  our  old  heritage,  is  not  even  named;  the 
whole  mind  of  the  country  is  directed  in  one  way,  to 
be  a  little  England  or  America  —  factories,  indus- 
tries, workshops,  our  harbours  filled  with  ships,  our 
rivers  polluted  with  slime,  the  atmosphere  reeking  with 
soot—" 

"Look!  Mr.  Cogan!  You  have  been  reading 
Ruskin?" 

"Yes!"  said  Myles,  ashamed  of  being  caught  quoting 
second  hand.  "He  was  the  most  truthful  man  of  his 
generation." 

"But  — the  windmills?"  said  the  monk.  "Is  Eng- 
land less  materialistic  today  for  all  his  preaching  —  for 
all  Carlyle's  scolding?     Are  not  rivers  polluted,  skies 


A  STORY  OF  '67  339 

darkened,  children  playing  on  banks  of  slags  and  cin- 
ders, far  more  than  when  he  thundered  against  such 
things?  Where's  the  use  in  useless  preaching  and 
prophesying?" 

It  seemed  the  final  word  to  Myles.  The  two  men 
sauntered  on  in  silence. 

"It  is  at  least  a  comfort  to  know,"  said  Myles  at 
length,  "that  Saul  needn't  be  amongst  the  prophets. 
My  work  is  done." 

"  Yes,  possibly ! "  said  Father  Cyril.  "  Nations  follow 
their  destiny.  But  it  may  comfort  you  to  know  that 
your  country  can  never  live  long  in  the  sty  of  material- 
ism. It  is  with  nations  as  with  individuals.  Some- 
times, an  old  man  comes  up  here,  just  at  the  end  of 
his  life  to  tell  us,  or  rather  tell  God,  that  his  whole 
life  has  been  a  huge  mistake.  He  set  out,  just  as  you 
say  Ireland  is  setting  out,  on  the  grand  race  for  gold. 
He  would  be  a  successful  man,  that  is,  he  would  die 
worth  sixty  thousand  pounds.  He  never  lost  sight  of 
that,  night  or  day.  It  haunted  him  at  his  meals,  at 
his  prayers,  at  Mass,  on  his  journeys.  It  was  the  grand 
objective  of  existence.  He  heard  sermons  denounc- 
ing this  evil,  but  they  were  not  for  him.  It  was  the 
priests'  business  to  say  such  things  on  money  from 
time  to  time,  and  that  was  all  right.  They  were  or- 
dained for  that.  But  it  was  his  business  to  make  sixty 
thousand  pounds,  and  to  have  the  newspapers  speak 
of  him  as  a  most  wealthy  and  respectable  citizen. 
That  too  was  all  right.  It  was  for  that  he  was  created. 
Then,  suddenl}^,  he  finds  the  prize  in  his  grasp;  but, 
like  the  old  fairy  legend,  the  gold  is  but  rusty  leaves. 
He  is  disgusted  with  his  success.  He  loathes  himself. 
He  remembers  something  about  a  camel  passing  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle;    and  something  about  Dives  and 


340  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Lazarus,  and  a  great  gulf  between.  Then  he  comes 
up  here  and  resolves  to  disgorge  the  whole  wretched 
thing,  and  turn  to  better  things.  Now,  that  is  just 
what  I  conjecture,  from  your  statements,  will  happen 
in  Ireland.  The  nation  will  go  on  from  prosperity  to 
prosperity.  Moral  degeneracy  must  accompany  ma- 
terial progress.  The  nation  will  grow  swollen  and 
inflated  —  and  then,  when  the  climax  is  reached,  and 
all  the  dreams  of  its  patriots  are  realised,  it  will  grow 
disgusted  with  itself,  for  there  is  one  idea  that  can 
never  leave  it.  It  has  haunted  the  race  from  St. 
Patrick  downward;  it  has  gone  with  them  in  exile; 
it  was  their  comfort  and  anchor  of  hope  in  persecution 
—  can  you  guess  what  it  is?" 

Myles  was  silent,  afraid  to  guess. 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  monk,  after  a  pause,  "what 
brought  you  up  here?" 

"To  make  a  short  retreat,  and  a  long  confession," 
said  Myles. 

"But,  why  didn't  you  go  to  Dublin,  to  Cork,  to 
Limerick?"  said  the  monk.  "There  are  Houses  of 
Retreat  in  these  places;  and  wiser  and  better  confessors 
than  you  will  find  here." 

"It  was  the  Mountain,"  said  Myles,  "and  the  soli- 
tude, and  that  spire,  and  the  chanting  of  the  monks, 
and  their  austere  lives." 

"Precisely.  That  is  —  the  monastic  idea  —  the  idea 
of  Bruno  and  Bernard,  and  all  our  saints.  But  do  you 
know,  that  our  modern  silence  and  austerities  are  but 
child's  play,  compared  with  those  of  the  old  Irish 
monks?" 

"So  I  have  heard,"  said  Myles.  "It  is  hard  to 
believe  it." 

"You  may  believe  it  then,"  said  the  monk.     "And 


A  STORY  OF   'G7  341 

do  you  think  that  that  monastic  idea,  which  is  haunt- 
ing yourself,  although  you  don't  perceive  it,  is  going 
to  be  quenched  by  a  few  years'  prosperity?  Never. 
The  nation  will  go  on;  grow  fat,  like  Jeshurun,  and  kick. 
And  then,  it  will  grow  supremely  disgusted  with  itself; 
it  will  take  its  wealth,  and  build  a  monastery  on  every 
hilltop  in  Ireland.  The  island  will  become  another 
Thebaid  —  and  that  will  be  its  final  destiny!" 

"God  grant  it!"  said  Myles,  raising  his  hat.  "But 
it  seems  so  far  away!" 

"A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day  in  the  sight  of  the 
Eternal,"  said  the  monk.  "Be  of  good  hope.  There 
is  an  Angel  watching  over  Ireland.     Farewell!" 

The  monk  stretched  out  his  hand,  which  Myles 
grasped.  He  seemed  to  wish  to  detain  the  monk 
further;  but  the  latter  glided  away  silently,  and  Myles 
felt  very  much  alone. 


XLVII 

During  the  next  few  weeks,  Myles  Cogan  had 
material  enough  for  meditation  in  the  monk's  last 
words.  He  turned  them  over,  again  and  again,  in  his 
mind,  contradicted  them,  refuted  them,  but  always 
ended  in  admitting  their  consolatory  truth.  The 
monastic  idea!  The  expression  interpreted  his  own 
thoughts  and  feelings  during  life;  for  even  as  a  Fenian, 
was  it  not  the  monastic  idea,  the  idea  of  sacrificing 
oneself  to  a  great  cause,  of  doing  hard  things,  of  giving 
up  life  to  infuse  new  life  into  the  people  —  was  not  this 
the  animating  principle  that  haunted  poor  Halpin, 
and  that  had  lain  so  long  dormant  in  his  own  mind? 

But  the  fatalism  of  the  monk  perturbed  him  some- 
what. Granted  that  all  things  were  revolving  in  a 
huge  cycle  under  the  control  of  Divine  providence, 
were  men  to  sit  down  and  remain  quiescent  until  the 
cycle  was  completed?  Somewhere  he  had  read  of  the 
sublime  duty  of  "helping  God."  Some  people  he  had 
read  about  as  "coadjutores  Altissimi,"  —  a  sublime 
expression!  Yes!  God  needs  to  be  helped.  He 
clamours  for  human  assistance.  And  is  it  better  to 
stand  aloof,  and  busy  oneself  in  the  arid  Sahara  of 
books,  than  to  go  down  and  mingle  in  the  conflict,  even 
though  defeat  were  assured?  There  was  but  one 
reply  to  that  query;  yet,  when  Myles  reflected  on  all 
that  it  meant  —  he  shrank  back  into  himself,  saying: 
** These  things  are  not  for  me." 


A  STORY  OF   '67  343 

He  had  no  opportunity  of  consulting  his  friend, 
Father  James,  on  the  matter;  for  the  latter  had  chosen 
the  early  summer  months  to  depart  on  his  holidays. 
And  then,  suddenly,  the  Ministry  resigned;  and  the 
country  was  face  to  face  with  a  General  Election. 

Promptly,  and  first  in  the  field,  Hugh  Kendall  issued 
his  appeal  to  the  independent  electors  of  that  division 
of  the  country.  It  was  a  modest,  manly  document, 
setting  forth  the  principle  that  it  was  not  Acts  of 
Parliament,  even  though  they  should  establish  Home 
Rule,  that  can  ever  build  up  a  nation;  that  a  nation 
is  great  or  little  according  to  the  genius  and  character 
of  its  people;  that,  if  the  people  are  sordid  and  base, 
and  have  sacrificed  that  first  essential  of  freedom,  indi- 
vidual independence,  no  merely  material  success  can 
compensate  for  such  national  apostasy;  and  that, 
therefore,  he  came  forward  as  an  advocate  of  human 
liberty,  untrammelled  by  any  obligations  to  party, 
and  owing  allegiance  only  to  those  who  would  confer 
upon  him  the  charter  to  represent  them  by  their 
unanimous  suffrage. 

The  address  was  a  little  academical;  and  wanted 
the  fire  and  energy  that  comes  from  more  popular  and 
idiomatic  language.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  manly 
document,  and  when  Myles  put  down  the  paper,  he 
said: 

"Poor  fellow !  And  he  little  knows  that  he  is  address- 
ing a  nation  of  slaves  in  the  language  of  freemen;  and 
how  can  they  understand  him?" 

He  went  about  his  ordinary  daily  avocations;  but 
read  the  papers  diligently.  In  the  beginning,  young 
Kendall  seemed  to  be  making  some  headway.  His 
reception  every  Sunday  at  different  places  of  meeting 
was  respectful,  if  not  cordial.     Then  suddenly  a  change 


344  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

took  place,  as  the  day  of  polling  came  nearer.  And 
one  Monday  morning,  Myles  was  horrified  to  read  that 
on  the  previous  day,  Hugh  Rendall  and  his  committee 
had  to  face  not  only  precious  abuse  from  the  opposing 
party,  but  had  been  driven  away  by  threats  of  violence, 
and  even  some  actual  assaults.  Halloran  had  been 
struck  and  badly  hurt;  and  Hugh  Rendall  had  been 
pelted  ignominiously,  until  the  police  advised  him  to 
retire  for  fear  of  more  dangerous  consequences. 

Myles  Cogan's  blood  boiled  up  at  such  intolerance, 
but  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  nothing  to  him. 
The  dream  of  the  monk,  Cyril,  seemed  farther  away 
than  ever. 

All  this  time.  Father  James,  who  had  openly  es- 
poused young  Rendall's  cause,  did  not  approach  Myles. 
He  knew  his  horror  of  such  things;  and  he  shrank  from 
interfering  with  his  decision. 

The  last  Sunday  was  approaching,  previous  to  the 
nomination  of  the  candidate;  and  it  was  understood 
that  several  meetings  were  to  be  held  on  that  day  by 
both  sides  in  the  struggle.  Party  feeling,  too,  had  run 
pretty  high.  A  good  deal  of  drink  had  been  distributed; 
and  it  was  understood  that  some  rough  work  was  to 
be  anticipated.  The  authorities  were  drafting  in 
police  and  troops  to  Kilmorna,  from  which,  as  from  a 
depot,  they  would  be  scattered  amongst  the  neighbour- 
ing villages.  And  Myles  heard,  as  he  had  heard  forty 
years  ago,  the  cavalry  bugle-calls  from  beyond  the 
bridge,  and  he  saw,  and  what  various  thoughts  it 
brought  to  his  mind,  the  young  hussars  with  their  blue 
or  red  tunics  slashed  with  yellow  braid,  parading  the 
streets  with  heavy  martial  tread  and  clank  of  spurs. 
Tho  police  were  billeted  here  and  there  on  unwilling 
householders;     and   the   atmosphere   was   thick   with 


A  STORY  OF  'tj7  345 

conjectures  of  what  Sunday's  meeting  might  bring 
forth.  A  few  admired  young  Kendall's  pluck;  but 
that  feeling  was  soon  swallowed  up  in  political 
animosity. 

A  few  days  before  that  memorable  Sunday,  Myles 
Cogan  was  in  his  office  at  the  Mill.  It  was  early  in 
the  day.  The  season  had  not  yet  come  in,  and  busi- 
ness was  dull.  Myles  was  reading  some  account  of 
meetings  held  in  different  parts  of  the  constituency; 
and,  as  all  the  speakers  seemed  to  repeat  themselves 
in  almost  the  same  words,  his  reading  was  listless 
enough,  until  his  eye  caught  one  sentence,  which 
instantly  arrested  him.     It  ran  thus: 

"I  understand  that  our  young  opponent,  as  callow 
as  an  unhatched  chicken,  has  now  enlisted  on  his  side 
a  more  mature  person,  whose  only  claim  to  considera- 
tion is,  that  sometime  in  the  remote  past,  he  took  the 
field  against  the  British  Empire.  {Derisive  laughter.) 
I  do  not  wish  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  the  Fenians. 
They  had  their  day;  and,  I  dare  say,  many  of  them  were 
honourable  men.  But  their  methods  are  out  of  date. 
The  age  of  tin-piking  and  hill-siding  is  gone;  and  if  any- 
one thinks  that,  because  forty  or  fifty  years  ago  he 
took  part  in  an  abortive  revolution,  he  can  now  com- 
mand the  votes  of  enlightened  constituents  who  have 
adopted  more  modern  and  up-to-date  methods  of 
benefiting  their  country,  then  I  tell  him,  and  I  want 
you  to  tell  him,  that  he  must  stand  aside,  and  not 
obstruct  the  nation  in  its  path  towards  independence 
(great  cheering,  and  shouts  of  "The  ould  miller,'^ 
'^Better  for  him  incrase  the  size  of  his  pinny  loaf,"  etc.). 
Yes!  the  Fenians  had  their  day  and  their  honours,  and 
we  don't  grudge  them;  but  the  nation  has  forged  ahead 
since  then.     If  this  gentleman  cares  to  join  the  ma- 


346  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

jority  of  his  fellow-countrymen,  and  stand  in  the  ranks, 
we  will  welcome  him  (shouts  of  "Will  he  bring  his  tin- 
pike  ivith  him,  Sorf  ") ;  but  if  he  means  to  come  down  to 
the  hustings,  side  by  side  with  a  beardless  boy,  whose 
father  sent  our  bravest  and  best  into  English  dungeons 
and  to  the  scaffold,  then  we  shall,  or  rather  you  will, 
give  him  the  reception  he  deserves." 

Myles  let  the  paper  fall;  and  just  then,  a  servant 
came  over  from  the  house  to  tell  him  that  a  lady  had 
called,  and  would  wish  to  see  him. 

He  was  in  no  mood  to  receive  visitors;  he  wanted 
time  to  reflect  and  collect  his  burning  thoughts.  Then 
he  looked  at  his  white  flour-dusted  coat  and  smiled 
grimly.  He  took  up  the  newspaper  and  went  over  to 
the  house.  He  placed  his  hat  on  the  hall-rack,  but  still 
retained  the  newspaper;  and  entered  the  drawing-room 
to  find  himself,  face  to  face,  with  Mary  Carleton.  The 
two  lives,  which  had  been  converging  towards  each 
other  for  over  forty  years,  had  met  at  last. 

She  rose  from  the  easy  chair  where  she  had  been 
sitting,  and  frankly  put  out  her  hand. 

"I  presume  there  is  no  need  for  an  introduction," 
she  said.     "I  came  to  you  on  behalf  of  my  boy." 

Instantly  the  suspicion  crossed  his  mind,  that  there 
was  a  plot  on  foot  to  drag  him  into  this  political  strug- 
gle in  spite  of  all  his  resolutions,  and  he  hardened  his 
mind  accordingly. 

"I  can  hardly  imagine,  Mrs.  Rendall,"  he  said,  not 
looking  at  her,  but  through  the  window,  and  across 
the  river,  at  the  old  castle,  "how  I  can  be  of  service 
to  Mr.  Rendall." 

"He  is  a  candidate  for  this  constituency,"  she  said. 
"The   contest  is  becoming  severe.      He  needs  every 


A  STORY  OF   '67  347 

help.  He  thinks  —  we  think  —  that  you  can  help 
him." 

"I  have  most  carefully  avoided  politics  for  over 
forty  years,"  said  Myles,  speaking  very  slowly  and 
deliberately.  "They  never  had  any  attraction  for  me 
—  now  less  than  ever.  I  wish  Mr.  Kendall  success; 
but  I  cannot  soil  my  own  hands." 

"He  is  contending  for  a  great  principle,"  said  Mrs. 
Kendall.  "He  is  young  and  ambitious,  of  course;  but 
he  has  a  great  love  for  his  countrj\  He  thinks  she  is 
passing  through  a  period  of  much  political  degradation, 
and  he  is  anxious  to  bring  the  public  mind  to  better 
things." 

"It  is  a  pretty  hopeless  task,"  said  Myles.  "I  am 
informed  that  Mr.  Kendall  has  not  the  ghost  of  a 
chance." 

"He  is  not  over-sanguine,"  said  Mrs.  Kendall. 
"That  is  why  he  wants  you.  You  command  great 
influence  in  certain  places  — " 

Myles  shook  his  head. 

"None,  absolutely  none,"  he  said.  "My  old  com- 
rades have  died  out  everywhere.  A  new  generation 
has  come  along.  They  have  no  sympathy  with  our 
ideas." 

"You  spent  ten  years  in  Dartmoor,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  mean  that  that  is  forgotten?" 

"Absolutely!"  he  replied.  "To  this  generation,  we 
were  fools  —  no  more!" 

"Then  the  people  are  sunken  deeper  than  I  thought," 
said  Mrs.  Kendall.  "Is  not  this  all  the  more  reason 
for  trying  to  lift  them?" 

He  shook  his  head.     After  a  pause,  he  said: 

"Has  Mr.  Kendall  or  his  agents  stated  that  I  am  on 
his  side?" 


348  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

She  flushed  up. 

"Certainly  not!"  she  said.  "That  would  be  too 
dishonourable.  In  fact,  Father  James  has  told  us, 
again  and  again,  that  you  could  never  be  induced  to 
take  part  in  an  election.  Indeed,  my  son  never  had  a 
hope  that  you  would  take  his  part.  It  was  I,  with  a 
mother's  foolishness,  suggested  that  I  should  come  to 
you." 

The  words  "take  his  part,"  and  "a  mother's  foolish- 
ness" seemed  to  touch  Myles;  but  he  folded  the  news- 
paper, and,  pointing  to  the  speech  that  had  already 
agitated  him,  he  said: 

"I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this,  if  it  did  not 
come  from  some  imprudent  follower  of  Mr.  Kendall's 
who  wanted  to  spur  me  to  his  side." 

She  read  it  carefully,  but  with  some  emotion. 

"I  cannot  understand  it,"  she  said.  "All  that  I 
can  assure  you,  Mr.  Cogan,  is  this,  that  no  one  on  our 
side  even  thought  of  you  as  likely  to  help  us,  until  I 
myself  proposed  it." 

"Then  it  is  a  challenge?"  he  said.  "Very  well! 
You  wish  me  to  help  your  son's  candidature,  Mrs. 
Kendall.     In  what  way?" 

She  saw  she  had  conquered,  or  rather  that  Myles 
was  conquered  by  that  speech,  and  she  said: 

"Next  Sunday,  there  are  to  be  some  critical  meetings. 
Hugh  will  speak  at  Meenus  and  also  at  Loughmir. 
Will  you  stand  on  the  platform,  or  the  waggonette, 
with  him?" 

"I  hate  all  speech-making,"  said  Myles.  "It  is 
positively  disgusting  to  have  to  face  an  unlettered  mob, 
and  try  to  talk  sense  to  them." 

"Well,  then,  don't  speak!"  she  said.  "Hugh  will 
be  satisfied  if  you  stand  by  his  side." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  349 

It  was  a  critical  moment.  Was  he  going  to  cast  all 
his  resolutions  aside,  and  face  the  ignominy  of  a  con- 
tested election?  If  the  question  were  one  of  obliging 
or  disobliging  Mrs.  Kendall,  he  would  not  have  a 
moment's  hesitation,  although  he  was  touched  by  their 
faith  and  hope  in  him.  But  that  speech  was  stinging 
him  by  its  insolent  challenge.  He  could  not  under- 
stand it.  There  was  no  doubt  it  was  meant  for  him. 
So  the  mob  understood  it.  He  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
how  his  name  could  have  been  introduced.  His  ab- 
stention from  politics  was  everywhere  understood. 
The  old  Fenians  were  supposed  to  look  down  upon 
and  despise  all  parliamentary  methods  of  helping 
Ireland.  And  he  had  been  consistent.  How,  then, 
could  it  be  supposed  that  he  had  suddenly  departed 
from  his  life-habit,  and  that  for  the  sake  of  a  boy  whom 
he  hardly  knew? 

Again,  the  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  that  he  was 
about  to  be  inveigled  into  the  election  by  some  secret 
wire-pullers.     He  said  at  length: 

"This  speech  is  a  challenge;  and  a  gratuitous  one. 
I  have  given  no  one  the  least  reason  to  think  that  I 
would  depart  from  the  habit  of  my  life.  You  assure 
me  it  has  not  come  from  your  side.  Then,  it  is  an 
insolent  challenge  from  the  other  side.  Very  well,  I 
accept  it.     I  shall  be  with  Mr.  Kendall  on  Sunday!" 

"Thanks  ever  so  much,  Mr.  Cogan."  she  said,  rising. 
"It  will  give  new  hope  to  Hugh.  May  we  put  your 
name  on  the  posters?" 

"By  all  means,"  he  said.  "But  not  as  an  orator, 
only  as  a  supporter  of  an  independent  policy,  such  as 
Mr.  Kendall  stands  for!" 

She  asked  sundry  questions  about  Agnes,  and  other 
things,  as  he  accompanied  her,  with  bared  head,  to 


350  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

the  carriage.  He  answered  in  a  mechanical  way. 
His  mind  was  already  far  away,  pondering  the  impor- 
tance of  the  step  he  had  taken.  More  self-possessed, 
Mrs.  Rendall  entered  her  carriage  and  put  out  her 
hand,  saying  again: 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much!"  and  her  carriage  rolled 
away. 


XL  VIII 

The  next  few  days  were  the  most  anxious  Myles 
Cogan  had  ever  spent.  He  felt  he  had  taken  a  most 
serious  step,  and  one  from  which  every  faculty  and 
feeling  revolted.  He  had  no  thought  of  consequences. 
He  only  pictured  himself  to  himself  as  face  to  face 
with  a  wild,  half-drunken,  insensate  mass  of  humanity, 
tossed  and  swayed  by  that  worst  of  all  passions,  politi- 
cal animosity.  And  nothing  could  come  of  it.  It 
was  perfectly  idle  to  hope  that  his  presence  could  stay 
human  passion;  or  that  the  record  of  his  life  would  be 
accepted  as  a  kind  of  credential  for  the  honesty  of  his 
motives. 

His  mind  was  not  made  much  easier  by  his  visitors. 
On  Thursday  morning,  the  placards  appeared  all  over 
the  dead  walls  of  Kilmorna,  informing  the  people  that 
Hugh  Kendall,  Esq.,  B.A.,  would  address  meetings  at 
Meenus  and  Loughmir  the  following  Sunday;  and  that 
Myles  Cogan,  Esq.,  Millbank,  Kilmorna,  and  several 
others  had  promised  to  be  present. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  day.  Supple,  pipe  in  mouth, 
and  hands  stuck  deep  in  his  pea-jacket,  strolled  into 
the  Millyard.  He  was  just  the  last  person  Myles 
wished  to  see.  Yet  he  thought  perhaps  the  fellow  could 
throw  some  light  on  the  situation. 

"Well,  Mr.  Cogan,"  the  latter  said,  "so  you  are 
coming  out  at  last?  You  should  have  done  this  thirty 
years  ago." 


352  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"There  was  no  call  for  my  intervention  hitherto," 
said  Myles.       "And  I  was  never  challenged  before." 

"I  suppose  they  got  some  inkling  of  your  intention," 
said  Supple.     "They  have  friends  everywhere." 

"Friends,  or  paid  spies?"  said  Myles. 

"We  don't  quarrel  with  words,  or  make  fine  dis- 
tinctions," said  Supple.  "But  everyone  is  wondering 
what  the  devil  brought  out  Myles  Cogan  to  second 
this  young  cub." 

"I  suppose  that  is  your  Parliamentary  language," 
said  Myles;  "and  as  Mr.  Kendall  is  only  a  mere  ac- 
quaintance of  mine,  I  have  no  right  to  resent  it.  But, 
I  think  that  young  cub  will  grow  teeth  and  claws  yet." 

"But  now,  Mr.  Cogan,"  said  Supple,  with  an  air  of 
confidence,  "the  public  would  like  to  know,  you  know, 
what  are  your  political  principles,  and  why  you  take 
up  this  new  fad!" 

"I  cannot  see  what  right  the  public  have  to  make  an 
inquisition  into  my  motives.  But  you  may  tell  the 
public  that  Mr.  Kendall  stands  for  independent  thought 
and  speech;   and  so  do  I." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Supple,  coolly.  He  did  not  under- 
stand such  things.  "If  he  gets  in,  and  he  has  about 
as  much  chance  as  my  grandmother,  he  will  probably 
become  an  Under  Secretary  to  somebody  or  other  and 
command  some  patronage." 

"Possibly.  Has  he  lost  much  on  the  score  of  bribery 
or  drink  as  yet?"  said  Myles,  whose  temper  was  getting 
somewhat  rufiied. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Supple,  blowing  out  a  cloud  of 
tobacco  smoke.  "They  say  the  old  lady  is  prepared 
to  spend  five  hundred  on  him  — " 

"That's  not  much,"  said  Myles.  "I  suppose  his 
opponent  can  spend  a  thousand." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  353 

"He'll  get  an  awful  beating,"  said  Supple,  not  heed- 
ing the  allusion.  "Every  priest  in  the  district  will 
oppose  him;  nine-tenths  of  the  people  will  oppose 
him;   even  the  old  Fenians  will  oppose  him." 

" Don't  be  too  sure  of  all  that,"  said  Myles.  "Father 
James  and  a  few  more  are  on  his  side;  and  he  com- 
mands some  influence.  As  to  the  old  Guard,  why 
should  they  oppose  Mr.  Kendall?" 

"Because  he's  half  English,  because  he  is  an  un- 
weaned  cub,  and  because  his  father  was  particularly 
hard  on  the  Fenians.  You  have  a  short  memory, 
Myles  Cogan!" 

"No!"  said  Myles.  "I  have  a  recollection  that  my 
name  was  mentioned  in  a  most  blackguardly  manner 
last  Sunday  by  a  paid  hireling,  probably  half-drunk; 
that  his  remarks  were  punctuated  and  endorsed  by  a 
brutal  mob;  that  it  was  a  challenge,  and  that  I  have 
accepted  it.     Good-day!" 

And  Supple  went  home,  calling  on  the  little  milliner 
by  the  way. 

"Well,  did  you  discover  the  secret?"  said  Miss 
McDonnell. 

"Yes,  easily.  I  never  have  to  fish  long,  before  I 
land  my  salmon.  Mrs.  Kendall  was  an  old  flame  of 
Cogan's  —  wonder  you  never  heard  that;  and  as  the 
Latin  poet  says,  Love  conquers  everything.  She  was 
at  Millbank  on  Tuesday." 

"No-o-o?"  said  Miss  McDonnell,  meaning:  "What 
glorious  news?     Well,  well,  wonders  will  never  cease." 

"It  is  a  compliment  to  your  sex  that  nothing  else 
could  have  dragged  Myles  Cogan  into  public  life.  But 
he  has  not  counted  the  cost!" 

"But  no  true  lover  counts  the  cost!"  said  the  milliner. 
"It  is  quite  clear  you  were  never  in  love,  Mr.  Supple!" 


354  THE  GRA\T:S  AT  KILMORNA 

She  added  in  her  own  mind  —  "except  with  money." 
He  thought:  "This  may  be  the  beginning  of  a  breach 
of  promise  case";  so  he  gallantly  said  Good-evening! 
and  spread  the  news  of  Myles  Cogan's  Platonic  worship 
through  the  to\\Ti. 

To  his  surprise  the  news  enlisted  the  sympathies  of 
the  entire  female  population,  to  whom  a  romance  of 
this  kind  was  more  interesting  than  mere  politics. 
Myles  Cogan  suddenly  sprang  into  popularity. 

'Move  serious,  however,  was  the  visit  which  his 
partner,  Cleary,  paid  him. 

He  was  a  grave  man,  seldom  smiled,  took  a  serious 
view  of  everything,  was  somewhat  pessimistic  in  his 
forecasts  of  events,  and  sometimes  got  on  the  nerves 
of  ^lyles  Cogan.     This  day  he  was  unusually  serious. 

"You  called  about  the  posters  for  Sundaj-'s  meet- 
ing?" said  Myles,  abruptly. 

"Yes!"  he  said  slowly  and  hesitatingly.  "It  has 
taken  us  all  by  surprise  to  see  your  name  at  all,  and  in 
such  a  connection!" 

"Then  you  all  supposed,"  said  M3'les,  "that  I  should 
have  called  a  public  meeting,  and  consulted  the 
people  of  Kilmorna  before  I  took  any  steps  in 
public  life?" 

"Hardly  that!"  said  his  partner.  "But  of  course 
you  have  been  leading  a  secluded  life  and  the  people 
are  dj'ing  to  know  why  you  have  departed  from  it." 

"Let  them  read  last  Sunday's  speeches,  and  they 
will  find  the  reason  there,"  said  Myles.  "That  black- 
guard and  hireling  sent  me  a  challenge;  and  I  accepted 
it!" 

"I  should  have  passed  it  by,"  said  Cleary.  "In 
election  times  wild  things  are  said  on  both  sides,  which 
no  one  heeds.     They  are  forgotten  next  da5\     Your 


A  STORY  OF  '07  355 

part  in  the  proceedings  will  not  be  forgiven  or  for- 
gotten." 

"Why?" 

"Because  political  partisans  never  forgive,"  said  his 
partner.  "They  make  a  virtue  of  revenge;  and  they 
will  now  revenge  themselves  on  us." 

"Their  very  worst  cannot  hurt  us,"  said  Myles,  who 
was,  however,  somewhat  uneasy.  "  We  have  weathered 
worse  storms  before." 

"Then  you  will  attend  these  meetings,  Mr.  Cogan?" 
said  the  old  man,  who  appeared  to  regard  the  matter 
as  still  doubtful. 

"If  I  am  spared,"  said  Myles.  "I  don't  like  the 
business.  It  is  against  my  wishes.  But  I  have  given 
my  word.  I  shall  attend;  but  no  more.  Wild  horses 
won't  get  a  speech  from  me." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  old  man,  turning  away. 
"Our  business  was  prospering;  and  we  should  soon 
have  the  lead  again.     Now — " 

He  turned  away,  and  Myles  felt  for  him.  He  began 
to  see  how  much  our  little  actions  control  the  destinies 
of  others. 

Father  James  called.  He  was  glad  and  sorry.  He 
was  delighted  that  Myles  should  have  come  out  of  his 
hermitage,  even  on  such  an  occasion.  He  will  become 
a  leading  man  now,  the  good  priest  thought.  He  has 
twenty  years  before  him  yet;  and  he  can  do  grand 
work  for  Ireland  in  that  time.  But  his  heart  sank, 
when  he  thought  of  the  fierce  opposition  that  awaited 
him.  How  will  a  thin-skinned  fellow,  like  that,  he 
thought,  face  the  furies  of  the  market-place  and  hust- 
ings? He  will  either  run  away,  or  make  such  a  speech 
that  will  electrify  the  whole  country. 

"Well,  so  you've  changed  your  mind,"  he  said  to 


366  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Myles  a  day  or  two  before  the  meeting.  "I  am  right 
glad  of  it.  The  stones  would  cry  out,  if  some  man 
did  not  come  forward  to  protest." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  protest,  Father  James,  except 
by  my  presence.  I  have  no  notion  of  making  a  speech. 
I  should  have  nothing  to  say.  As  you  are  aware,  I'm 
quite  out  of  touch  with  this  generation." 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  priest.  "But  at 
least  your  presence  will  help.  Mrs.  Rendall  is  in  great 
hope  now." 

"I  cannot  imagine  it,"  Myles  said.  "I  cannot  for 
the  life  of  me  see  how  I  can  influence  an  election.  The 
public  have  long  since  agreed  to  forget  Slieve-Ruadh 
and  Dartmoor;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  afraid 
my  presence  will  injure  Rendall's  cause.  But  I  can't 
help  it.  They  wish  me  to  go  forward;  and  I  go.  But 
it  was  only  when  the  glove  was  flung  into  my  face,  I 
took  it  up." 

"No  matter,  no  matter!"  said  Father  James.  "I 
only  wish  you  could  conquer  your  shyness,  or  contempt; 
and  say  a  few  words  that  would  wake  up  the  people 
to  a  sense  of  their  degradation." 

"I'd  as  soon  think  of  talking  high  morality  to  a  lot 
of  cattle  from  the  top  of  a  ditch,"  said  Myles.  "But 
one  thing  puzzles  me.  How  did  that  scoundrel,  who 
attacked  me  last  Sunday,  come  to  know  that  young 
Rendall  had  my  sympathies?  Mrs.  Rendall  assures 
me  it  did  not  come  from  them.  Where  did  this  fellow 
learn  it,  or  could  it  be  a  political  manoeuvre  to  get  me 
out,  and  show  the  'Old  Guard'  how  I  had  apostatised? 
Supple  tells  me  I  shall  find  them  dead  against  me  at 
Meenus  and  Loughmir." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Father  James,  rubbing  his  hands, 
"no  one  knows  what  is  going  to  happen  at  election 


A  STORY  OF  '67  357 

times.  There  are  wheels  within  wheels;  and  Supple 
is  an  old  Parliamentary  hand." 

"Well,  I  suppose  what  is  to  be,  will  be,"  said  Myles, 
philosophically.     "You're  coming.  Father  James?" 

"I  am,"  said  the  priest.  "But  think  again,  Myles, 
before  you  decide  not  to  speak.  We  haven't  many 
platform  orators  on  our  side.  A  few  burning  words 
about  old  times,  about  Davis  and  Mitchell  and  Kick- 
ham,  will  rouse  them.  And  if  you  cannot  convert  the 
old  sinners,  you  might  put  new  ideas  into  the  hearts  of 
the  young." 

But  Myles  shook  his  head.  Or  that  point,  his  mind 
was  made  up. 


XLIX 

On  Sunday  morning,  Myles  Cogan  went  to  First 
Mass  at  Kilmorna;  and  received  Holy  Communion. 
At  twelve  o'clock,  he  left  Millbank,  and  went  back  into 
the  town  to  join  the  cavalcade  who  were  to  escort  Hugh 
Rendall  to  the  places  of  meeting.  As  he  crossed  the 
bridge,  he  met  one  of  the  "Old  Guard,"  who  said  to 
him: 

"You're  goin'  to  the  meetings.  Master  Myles?" 

"I  am,"  said  Myles.     "Are  you  coming?" 

"No!"  said  the  old  rebel.  "I  wouldn't  give  a 
thraneen  for  ayther  side.  They  are  all  sack  and  sample 
alike,  —  looking  out  for  theirselves." 

"Well,  good-day,  Mike!"  said  Myles,  turning  away. 

"One  word.  Master  Myles,"  said  the  man,  detaining 
him.  "We're  sorry  you're  mixing  yourself  with  these 
election  blackguards.  But  maybe,  you  have  your 
raisons.  You  needn't  mind  Meenus  much;  but  take 
care  of  yourself  at  Loughmir.  They're  an  ugly  crowd 
there!" 

"All  right!  Never  fear,  Mike!  Good-day!"  said 
Myles. 

A  waggonette  well  filled,  and  a  few  side  cars,  formed 
the  little  procession  that  left  Kilmorna  just  as  the  bell 
was  ringing  for  last  Mass.  There  was  a  crowd.  A 
few  cheers  were  raised.  There  would  have  been  a  more 
hostile  demonstration  but  for  the  hour;  and  the  fact 
that    Father    James,    the    former    beloved    curate    of 


A  STORY  OF  '67  359 

Kilmorna  was  there.  As  they  left  the  town,  the 
Kilmoma  fife  and  drum  band,  to  which  Myles  had  sub- 
scribed regularly  for  over  twenty  years,  left  the  town 
by  another  road.  They  were  now  in  the  employment 
of  the  enemy;   and  were  going  to  Loughmir. 

The  little  troupe  reached  Meenus,  just  as  the  people 
were  coming  from  Mass;  and  drew  up  in  an  open  space. 
The  village  was  a  wretched  one  —  a  few  tumbled-down 
thatched  houses,  one  or  two  hucksters'  shops,  the 
police-barracks,  the  chapel  —  that  was  all.  One  soli- 
tary public-house  seemed  to  have  absorbed  all  the 
wealth  of  the  place,  if  one  could  judge  by  the  exterior. 

As  Hugh  Kendall's  party  waited  in  their  cars  for  a 
crowd  to  gather,  they  noticed  that  the  well-to-do 
farmers  and  their  families  hurried  on  to  their  traps, 
and  gigs,  and  made  haste  from  the  village.  A  few 
loungers  put  their  backs  against  a  wall,  and  waited. 
A  solitary  constable  came  down  the  street.  Several 
small  boys  gathered  round  the  waggonette;  and  began 
to  cheer  and  mock  alternately. 

"A  blue  look-out!"  said  Father  James  to  Myles 
Cogan. 

*'A  few  gallons  of  porter  would  have  got  up  a  splen- 
did meeting,"  said  a  disgusted  follower. 

Hugh  Kendall  rose,  took  off  his  hat,  and  addressed 
the  independent  electors  of  Meenus.  He  told  them  in 
modest  language  why  he  was  there.  It  was  to  put  a 
new  spirit  into  the  country.  He  had  nothing  to  gain. 
He  sought  no  personal  advantage.  But  he  was  con- 
vinced that  the  country  was  passing  through  a  crisis 
of  political  degradation;  and  he  and  his  friends  were 
anxious  to  purify  public  life  and  bring  back  the  old 
spirit  of  patriotism  again  —  the  spirit  that  animated 


360  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Emmet  and  Wolfe  Tone;  Mitchell  and  Davis;  and  the 
men  of  '67,  the  most  conspicuous  of  whom  had  thrown 
in  their  lot  with  him. 

He  spoke  for  half  an  hour.  Not  a  cheer  was  raised. 
The  young  gamins  laughed.  The  policeman  caught 
himself  smiling  a  felonious  smile. 

"Let  us  get  away!"  said  Father  James.  And  they 
went. 

Things  were  far  different  in  Loughmir.  It  was  a 
fairly-sized  town  with  some  excellent  shops  and  public 
buildings,  a  handsome  Church,  and  well-kept  streets. 
In  the  centre,  a  smaller  street  branched  off  from  the 
main  street,  and  formed  a  kind  of  square.  In  the  dis- 
tance, but  plainly  observable  by  Hugh  Kendall's  party, 
as  they  drove  into  the  town,  the  Lough  lay  shimmering 
under  the  summer  sun.  Myles  Cogan  was  well-known 
here.  He  had  been  doing  business  with  the  principal 
shop-keepers  for  over  forty  years;  he  had  boated,  fished, 
and  shot  wild  fowl  on  that  lough;  but  he  knew  that 
political  strife  can  wipe  out  all  decent  recollections; 
and  he  was  glad  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
should  be  only  a  listener  in  the  crowd. 

As  they  entered  the  town,  the  opposite  party  had 
gathered  an  immense  crowd  around  a  platform  erected 
in  the  square.  There  were  three  bands,  whose  drums 
rolled  out  their  salvoes  as  the  people  cheered  point 
after  point  in  some  speech.  But,  by  a  police  arrange- 
ment, the  two  meetings  could  not  be  held  simultane- 
ously. And  a  cordon  of  constables  was  stationed  just 
at  the  outskirts  of  the  village  to  keep  back  the  Kendall 
party,  until  their  opponents'  meeting  should  be  at  an 
end.  They  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  three  bands 
struck  up  three  different  tunes  in  exquisite  discord; 
there  was  an  outburst  of  tumultuous  cheering;    and 


A  STORY  OF  '67  361 

although  the  crowd  had  not  dispersed,  the  police  opened 
up  their  ranks,  and  allowed  the  Rendall  party  to  enter 
the  town.  They  closed  up  behind  them,  and  marched 
two  deep  behind  the  waggonette.  The  Inspector 
looked  very  grave;  and  a  Serjeant,  approaching  Father 
James,  said: 

"Make  your  meeting  as  brief  as  possible.  Father. 
There  is  an  ugly  temper  in  that  crowd." 

They  pushed  their  way,  however,  amidst  some 
cheering,  but  much  hooting  and  shouting,  to  the  square. 
The  police  drew  around  the  waggonette,  keeping  back 
some  ugly  fellows  with  heavy  sticks  in  their  hands, 
and  young  Rendall,  with  bared  head,  stood  up  in  the 
waggonette  to  speak. 

Instantly,  the  drums  began  to  beat  to  stifle  his 
voice;  and  a  volley  of  derisive  cheering  greeted  him. 
A  few  potatoes  were  thrown;  and  the  crowd  began  to 
undulate,  as  the  people  behind  crowded  forward. 

Hugh  Rendall  spoke  in  a  clear  voice  that  rang  around 
the  square;  and  for  a  few  moments,  he  got  a  hearing; 
but  then  an  organised  clique  began  to  shout;  and  the 
big  drums  began  to  beat  dow^n  the  voice  of  the  young 
orator.  He  persevered,  however,  under  a  fire  of  criti- 
cism and  pretty  foul  language;  and  then  an  egg  struck 
him  right  on  the  forehead  and  blinded  him  with  its 
contents.  He  put  up  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  away 
the  loathsome  thing;  and  a  young  girl  in  the  crowd 
shouted  out: 

"Kiss  me.  Baby!" 

This  sally  was  met  with  uproarious  laughter;  which 
soon  changed,  as  is  the  wont  with  an  Irish  crowd,  into 
a  paroxysm  of  fury  when  Rendall  said,  with  some 
contempt: 

"My  only  experience  of  Irish  women,  hitherto,  has 


362  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

been  of  the  clean  and  virtuous  women  of  Donegal. 
You  seem  to  belong  to  a  different  race  — " 

A  yell  of  maddened  pride  broke  from  the  crowd; 
and  a  gang  of  half-drunken  rowdies  tried  to  force  their 
way  through  the  circle  of  police. 

All  this  time,  Myles  Cogan  was  studying  the  faces 
around  him  with  some  interest.  It  was  forty  years 
since  he  had  seen  an  election  mob,  such  as  was  now 
before  him.  Was  there  a  change?  Had  education 
and  religion,  the  civilising  agents  of  mankind,  hand  in 
hand,  raised  this  people  from  the  fearful  degradation 
of  Holloway's  election,  when  he,  after  raising  the  burned 
woman  from  the  ground,  and  carrying  her  to  a  place 
of  safety,  leaned  his  head  against  the  wall  of  the  bakery, 
and  wept?  Alas,  no!  Time  had  made  no  change. 
There  were  the  same  distorted  and  inflamed  and  furious 
faces  he  had  known;  there  was  the  same  foul  language 
that  had  so  often  made  him  shudder;  there  were  the 
same  intolerance,  the  same  bigotry,  the  same  senseless 
and  animal  rage  that  made  him  weep  for  Ireland  forty 
years  ago.  Hot,  furious  words  leaped  to  his  lips; 
wild  storms  of  contemptuous  rage  swept  his  soul;  yet 
in  a  moment  subsided.     He  murmured  mentally: 

"Ah,  mother  Ireland,  mother  Ireland,  is  this  what 
forty  years  have  wrought  in  thy  children?  What 
hope?     What  hope?" 

The  dream  of  the  monk,  Cyril,  seemed  farther  away 
than  ever.  How  could  a  nation  of  contemplative 
cenobites  spring  from  such  material  as  this? 

Meanwhile,  the  mob  surged  and  undulated  around 
the  platform  and  the  cars:  and  again  the  Serjeant 
said: 

"The  horses  are  fortunately  harnessed.  Father;  and 
we  can  cut  a  way  for  you  through  the  crowd." 


A  STORY  OF  '67  363 

And  Father  James  said,  after  a  brief  consultation: 
"Yes.     It  is  better.     Driver,  move  on!" 
Just  then,  Mj'Ies  Cogan  arose,  and  laying  his  hat  on 
the  cushions  of  the  waggonette,  he  said,  in  very  gentle 
tones  : 

"I  should  like  to  say  a  few  words!" 
The  priest  was  thunderstruck;  but  had  to  give  way; 
and  Myles,  speaking  from  the  side  of  the  waggonette, 
with  half  the  raging  mob  behind  him,  shook  them  into 
sudden  silence.  A  great  wave  of  human  pity  —  pity 
for  these  poor  people,  pity  for  himself,  pity  for  the 
dear  old  land,  swept  over  his  soul,  and  broke  down  all 
the  barriers  of  a  resolute  silence. 


Myles  Cogan  was  as  well  known  in  Loughmir,  as  in 
Kilmorna;  and  the  personal  respect  in  which  he  was 
held  as  a  man  of  the  highest  integrity  helped  him  now 
in  securing  a  few  minutes,  at  least,  of  silence.  There 
were  some  derisive  cheers  from  a  portion  of  the  crowd 
behind  him,  where  the  worst  elements  predominated; 
and  "Three  Cheers  for  the  ould  Feenean,"  "Hurrah 
for  the  ould  hillsider,"  "Did  you  bring  your  tinpike, 
Mylie?  You'll  want  it  today!"  were  heard  here  and 
there  in  the  crowd.  But  the  novelty  of  the  situation, 
the  magnificent  face  and  figure  of  the  speaker,  the 
white  hair  standing  up  like  stubble,  and  the  calm  bear- 
ing of  the  man  overcame  for  the  moment  the  organised 
hostility  of  portions  of  the  crowd;  and  cries  of  "Whisht! 
Whisht!"  "Let  us  hear  what  he  has  to  say  for  him- 
self!" were  echoed  out  to  the  very  edges  of  the 
meeting.  He  spoke  in  a  calm,  melancholy  manner, 
but  he  was  heard  distinctly,  and  understood,  except 
when  he  became  transcendental. 

"If  anyone,"  he  said,  "had  told  me  a  week  ago  that 
I  should  be  standing  on  a  political  platform  today; 
if  anyone  had  told  me  ten  minutes  ago  that  I  would 
make  a  speech  here  today,  I  would  have  reputed  him 
a  madman.  The  idea  of  my  mixing  in  latter-day 
politics  is  utterly  foreign  to  my  instincts,  to  my  feel- 
ings, to  my  principles.     I  do  not  belong  to  this  genera- 


A  STORY  OF  '67  365 

tion  of  Irishmen.  I  was  born  amidst  the  gloom  of  '47 
and  '48;  and  in  my  childhood  I  drank  in  all  the 
inspiration  that  came  from  the  music  and  the  elo- 
quence of  that  latter  year.  In  my  youth,  I  joined 
the  revolutionary  party;  but  let  that  chapter  of  my 
life  be  now  unopened  as  it  is  forgotten.  But  I  fly  back 
in  imagination  from  the  tumult  and  the  rioting,  from 
the  palpable  dishonesty  and  political  profligacy  of  this 
age  to  the  valour  and  probity,  the  disinterestedness 
and  honour,  of  the  olden  time,  just  as  a  visitor  would 
fly  from  the  mephitic  atmosphere  of  the  fever  ward  in 
a  country  workhouse  to  the  clean,  sweet  air,  and  the 
wild,  wholesome  winds  that  sweep  around  the  summits 
of  Glenmorna.  You  will  ask  me  then  why  I  am  here 
today.  (Cries  of:  "Because  you  are  d — d  well  paid 
for  it,  Mylie!  Sure  everywan  knows  you  want  the 
graft!") 

"No!  my  friends,"  he  continued,  speaking  in  the  same 
level  tones,  "your  charitable  conjectures  are  not  well- 
founded.  I  came  to  advocate  a  great  principle  —  the 
right  of  every  individual  Irishman  to  think  as  he 
pleases  on  political  subjects  —  a  right  which,  under 
specious  pretences,  has  been  denied  to  Irishmen  for 
the  last  thirty  years.  And  if  you  ask  me  why  I  have 
broken  silence  today,  I  answer,  because,  however 
futile  the  attempt  may  be,  I  feel  I  should  be  a  coward 
not  to  stand  forward,  especially  when  the  glove  has 
been  flung  in  my  face,  and  to  say  that  in  my  opinion 
we  shall  sink  deei>er  and  deeper  in  political  turpitude, 
unless  that  priceless  gift  of  individual  freedom  shall 
be  won  back  for  the  nation  again.  (Cries  of:  *'  Bravo, 
Mylie!  But  spake  plain,  man,  and  don't  he  using  thim 
big  words!")  There  is  much  talk  now  about  nation- 
building;   and  I  heard  a  number  of  galley-slaves,  their 


366  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

pockets  turned  inside  out,  and  the  whip  curving  over 
their  heads,  trying  to  sing:  'A  Nation  once  again!* 
But  I  tell  you,  that  in  building  up  a  Nation,  it  is  not 
to  Acts  of  Parliament  you  must  look,  but  to  yourselves, 
because  no  material  gain  can  compensate  for  moral 
degeneracy,  and  I  doubt  if  Ireland  ever  sank  lower  in 
the  sty  of  materialism  than  in  this  present  age.  (Cries 
of:  '^Cut  it  short,  Mylie!  Don't  be  insulting  the  people," 
etc.)  I  speak  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger,  —  in  sorrow,  to 
see  a  great  race,  with  all  the  elements  of  moral  and 
intellectual  progress,  failing  to  rise  to  the  level  of  its 
opportunities,  because  it  will  not  see  that  it  is  from  itself, 
and  not  from  foreign  influences,  its  redemption  must 
come.  Let  us  cease  from  being  a  nation  of  slaves, 
begetting  dictators  and  tyrants:  (Cries  of  "  We  are  not, 
d — n  you!"  ''Parnell  was  worth  a  million  of  tin-pikers 
and  hillsiders  like  you."  The  tumult  became  frightful; 
and  missiles  of  every  kind  were  flung  from  behind  at 
the  speaker.)  Well,  I  have  done.  I  have  said  more 
than  I  intended  to  say" — ("You've  said  too  much!" 
"Sit  down,  you  bankrupt,  or  clear  out  of  this  at 
wance") 

Just  then,  the  same  young  girl,  who  had  shouted: 
"Kiss  me,  Baby,"  to  young  Rendall,  elbowed  her  way 
through  the  crowd  and,  standing  beneath  the  waggon- 
ette, she  said: 

"Tell  us  honestly,  now,  Mylie,  if  we  put  in  Baby 
Rendall,  will  you  marry  the  widda?" 

The  words  were  caught  up  with  a  shout  of  laughter, 
and  were  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth  out  to  the 
farthest  edge  of  the  crowd.  The  sudden  anger  of  the 
people  was  instantly  changed  into  a  chorus  of  merri- 
ment, interspersed  with  all  kinds  of  sarcastic  and  even 
brutal  remarks;  but  the  missiles  were  showering  around 


A  STORY  OF   '67  367 

the  speaker's  head,  and  across  the  faces  of  the  occu- 
pants of  the  waggonette,  as  if  to  emphasize  with  a 
kind  of  savage  scorn  the  coarse  merriment  that  echoed 
along  the  square. 

Myles,  unable  to  divine  her  meaning,  was  looking 
down  at  the  girl,  whose  red  hair  was  gleaming  in  the 
sunshine,  whilst  her  handsome  face  was  lit  up  with 
smiles  at  the  success  of  her  sally.  Father  James  gently 
pulled  at  Myles'  coat.  The  latter  turned  round;  and 
just  then  a  sharp  shock  seemed  to  lift  his  head  off  his 
shoulders;  he  was  conscious  that  warm  blood  was 
running  down  his  neck  beneath  his  shirt-collar;  he 
stumbled  forward,  but  recovered  his  balance;  tried 
to  speak,  but  failed;  then  the  faces  of  the  crowd  seemed 
to  fade  away  into  a  haze,  and  to  melt  into  each  other; 
the  houses  in  front  seemed  moving  back  in  a  kind  of 
cloud;  and  then  a  great  darkness  came  down;  and 
Myles  Cogan,  the  intrepid  Fenian,  the  brave,  honour- 
able man,  the  unsullied  patriot,  was  lying  on  the  floor 
of  the  waggonette,  and  men  were  bending  over  him 
in  sorrow  and  in  shame. 

A  shout  "He's  killed!"  went  over  the  crowd;  and 
some  said:   "The  divil  mind  him!" 

Horrified,  disgusted,  angry,  and  ashamed.  Father 
James  took  the  reins  from  the  driver's  hands,  saying 
angrily: 

"If  you  had  done  what  you  were  told  five  minutes 
ago,  this  wouldn't  have  occurred." 

The  man  made  some  apology;  and  the  priest,  whip- 
ping up  the  horses,  drove  recklessly  through  the  crowd, 
and  pulled  up  sharply  at  the  Presbytery.  A  young 
priest  came  out  at  his  command,  and  was  ordered  at 
once  to  anoint  the  dying  man.  This  he  did;  and  then 
someone  suggested  a  doctor. 


368  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

"We'll  have  no  more  of  Loughmir  blackguardism," 
said  Father  James,  still  holding  the  reins.  "Place 
Myles  gently  on  the  floor,  get  your  handkerchiefs  and 
staunch  the  bleeding,  if  you  can,  and  put  a  cushion  or 
two  under  his  shoulders,  and  let  us  leave  this  accursed 
place  at  once." 

They  did  as  he  had  ordered;  and  slowly,  very  slowly, 
so  as  not  to  promote  the  hemorrhage,  the  waggonette 
moved  forwards.  And  that  night  Myles  Cogan  lay 
with  shattered  brain  on  the  same  bed  where  his  father 
had  lain  in  apoplexy  forty  years  before. 

The  family  doctor  was  at  once  summoned.  He  made 
a  brief  examination,  and  shook  his  head. 

"Was  it  a  stick  or  a  stone?"  he  said, 

"A  stone,"  was  the  reply. 

"It  was  well  aimed,"  he  said.  "It  has  crushed  in 
the  skull;  and  the  fragments  have  pierced  the  tissues 
of  the  brain." 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  said  Father  James. 

"Absolutely  none!"  was  the  reply. 

Father  James  was  beside  himself  with  grief  and 
remorse.  He  blamed  himself  for  having  enticed  his 
life-long  friend  away  from  the  peaceful  seclusion  of 
his  home,  from  the  peace  and  serenity  of  a  quiet,  studi- 
ous life,  and  brought  him  into  that  terrible  arena, 
where  neither  reason  nor  judgment  nor  human  kind- 
liness prevail,  but  all  is  noise  and  tumult,  the  clashing 
of  brands,  and  the  fierce  passions  of  men  loosened  from 
the  usual  restrictions  of  decent  life,  and  transformed 
into  wild  beasts. 

He  went  up  and  down  stairs  twenty  times,  asked  the 
little  maid  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  forgot  to  drink  it. 
Finally,  took  his  hat,  and,  crossing  the  Bridge,  went 


A  STORY  OF  '67  369 

straight  to  the   doctor's  house.     The  doctor  was   at 
dinner;   but  he  came  into  the  hall. 

"Is  there  not  some  operation,  called  trephining  or 
trepanning  that  relieves  the  brain-pressure?"  the 
priest  said  abruptly. 

"Yes!"  said  the  doctor. 

"Could  we  not  wire  to  Dublin,  and  get  down  some 
leading  surgeon  tomorrow?" 

"Of  course.     But  it  will  be  useless." 

"How?" 

"He  could  not  be  here  before  three  o'clock  tomorrow, 
and—" 

He  seemed  to  hesitate.     Then  he  said  gently: 

"Mr.  Cogan  cannot  survive  the  night!" 

The  priest  went  back,  and  took  up  his  station  by  the 
bedside  of  the  dying  man.  There  was  another  mourner 
there  —  Mary  Carleton.  She  too  was  agitated  by 
conflicting  thoughts  —  remorse  again  predominating. 
It  was  she  who  had  persuaded  Myles  Cogan  to  come 
forward  as  her  son's  champion.  It  was  she  who  was 
responsible  for  that  tragic  death.  It  was  her  maternal 
selfishness  that  brought  that  quiet,  retiring  man  from 
his  mill  and  his  books,  and  exposed  him  to  the  passions 
of  a  drunken  and  howling  mob.  Her  eyes  were  dry; 
but  they  were  sunken  under  dark  streaks,  as  she  looked 
speechless  through  the  window. 

The  night  wore  on.  There  was  no  more  to  be  done 
for  the  dying  man.  He  could  not  receive  the  Viaticum. 
He  had  been  anointed  and  conditionally  absolved. 
Human  skill  was  powerless  to  stay  the  hand  of 
death. 

They  sat,  priest  and  woman,  at  either  side  of  the 
couch.  They  spoke  little;  and  prayed  much.  There 
was  silence  all  night  in  that  dark  room,  broken  only 


370  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

by  the  stertorous  breathing  of  the  dying  man.  When 
the  faint  pencils  of  the  dawn  of  that  summer  morning 
stole  through  the  blinds,  and  made  an  aureole  of 
roseate  light  on  the  curtains  above  his  bed,  the  soul  of 
Myles  Cogan  departed. 


LI 

The  funeral  took  place  at  five  o'clock  on  Wednes- 
day evening.  There  was  an  immense  crowd.  Nothing 
attracts  in  Ireland,  like  a  funeral.  The  carriages  of 
the  gentry  with  closed  blinds  stretched  along  the  high 
road.  A  phalanx  of  grim,  old  men,  the  remnants  of 
'67,  was  drawn  up  near  the  mill  wall.  The  coffin  was 
brought  down  at  five  o'clock  sharp.  The  two  atten- 
dant curates  put  on  their  scarves.  Just  then,  the 
Kilmorna  Fife  and  Drum  Band  marched  up,  drums 
and  fifes  craped  in  black. 

There  was  a  movement  amongst  the  old  Fenians. 
Then  one  stepped  out  —  a  grim  and  grizzled  old  fellow, 
and  accosting  the  Captain  of  the  band,  he  said  fiercely: 

"Are  you  the  leader  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy.  "We  came  to  play  the  'Dead 
March  in  Saul'  for  Mr.  Cogan." 

"Do  you  see  these  men  over  there?"  said  the  old 
Fenian,  pointing  to  his  comrades. 

"I  do." 

"Well.  They'll  give  you  just  five  minutes  to  clear 
out  of  this,  you  dirty  scuts.  If  you  don't,  they'll 
smash  your  drums  and  fifes;  and  then  they'll  smash 
your  heads  into  the  bargain." 

Shamefaced  and  frightened,  they  lowered  their  drums, 
hid  their  fifes  in  their  pockets,  and  slunk  away. 

A  hearse,  drawn  by  two  horses,  rolled  up,  its  white 
plumes  waving  in  the  wind.     It  was  not  needed.     The 


372  THE  GRAVES  AT  KILMORNA 

Old  Guard  had  resolved  to  shoulder  the  coffin  of  their 
dead  chief  to  his  grave.  At  a  signal,  the  two  priests 
went  forward,  the  remains  were  lifted  up  reverently 
by  four  of  the  Old  Guards,  the  remainder  walking,  two 
and  two,  behind  to  relieve  their  comrades.  Father 
James  was  immediately  behind  the  coffin,  his  head 
stooped,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground. 

The  funeral  procession  passed  down  along  the  road; 
then  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  and  crossed  the  Bridge, 
beneath  which  the  river,  every  ripple  of  which  the  dead 
man  loved,  was  murmuring  its  little  dirge  for  him. 
The  grey  old  Geraldine  Keep,  ivy-clad  to  the  summit, 
looked  down,  and  seemed  to  say:  "Pass,  mortals!  I, 
immortal,  remain!" 

On  through  the  silent  streets,  where  every  shop  was 
shuttered,  and  every  blind  was  drawn,  the  procession 
passed;  then  turned  into  the  graveyard,  which  was 
soon  filled.  There,  when  the  burial  service  had  been 
read,  the  hands  of  his  old  comrades  lowered  the  coffin 
of  Myles  Cogan  into  his  grave,  within  one  foot  of  the 
place  where  the  remains  of  his  old  friend,  Halpin,  had 
already  crumbled  away.  The  grave  was  speedily 
filled.  The  priests  took  off  their  scarves,  folded  their 
stoles,  and  departed.  The  crowd  melted  away.  The 
little  mound  was  raised,  and  the  green  sods  pressed 
down  and  beaten  into  the  brown  earth. 

Then  the  little  phalanx  drew  together,  and  made  a 
circle  around  the  grave  of  their  Chieftain.  Father 
James  knelt  down,  and  said  the  De  Profundis  and  five 
Our  Fathers  and  Hail  Marys  for  the  deceased.  And 
one  of  the  old  men  said: 

"Forty  years  ago.  Father  James,  you  said  a  few 
words  to  us  the  night  we  buried  Colonel  Halpin.  Have 
you  nothing  to  say  to  us  now?" 


A  STORY  OF  '67  373 

And  the  priest,  whilst  the  tears  streamed  down  his 
face,  said: 

"Nothing,  boys,  nothing!  We  stand  above  the  dust 
of  the  two  bravest  souls  that  ever  lived  and  suffered 
for  Ireland.  Whether  future  generations  will  come 
here,  and  make  the  'Graves  at  Kilmorna'  a  place  of 
pilgrimage,  or  whether  these,  too,  shall  be  forgotten, 
I  know  not.  What  we  know  is,  that  there  lie  two 
Irish  martyrs  —  one,  pierced  by  an  English  bullet  on 
the  field  of  battle;  the  other,  after  spending  the  best 
ten  years  of  his  life  in  English  dungeons,  done  to  death 
by  his  own  countrymen.  There  they  lie;  and  with 
them  is  buried  the  Ireland  of  our  dreams,  our  hopes, 
our  ambitions,  our  love.  There  is  no  more  to  be  said. 
Let  us  go  hence!" 


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